Lament of the Prince
by ArchArtistWriter
Summary: Two years after the defeat of Lord Voldemort, the one Death Eater left, languishes in an empty Azkaban prison. Forced to recall, he makes a soliloquy on his life and values and ultimately, how the destruction of the Dark Lord was made possible. PreDH.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note:_

I apologise for my use of original characters. Although I have frequently used original characters in my previous fanfiction, they have never been the most satisfactory of my works and more to the point, I've never thought original characters to be particularly necessary. Anyway, I vowed to myself never to use any for this fanfic. But, well, the ones present here appeared natural enough, and seemed to give the fanfiction a certain something that I quite liked.

'And as God and vengeance would have it..."

-The Bride, Kill Bill Vol 1 (original script)

Prologue

They have placed me in one of the cells nearest the foundations of Azkaban. There are no more Dementors left anymore to drive one insane - clearly, they are hoping that a mere century or so lying against a stone wall with the sound of the sea continuously pounding against the other side is enough to drive anyone insane. And so it should be. But I am no one, after all, so it isn't really having much of an effect on me.

It's been two years since Voldemort fell. Time does certainly fly. I can't even remember when I first came here.

The wizarding world had been awaiting a public trial, so that they could express their contempt for the murderer of their beloved Dumbledore and joint-murderer of their saviour, Harry Potter. The Ministry, however, knew better than to treat one of their best spies and Dark Arts experts (incognito, though, so to speak) in such a fashion. After all, give it another two centuries and Severus Prince Snape would be hailed as an unsung hero by future generations of naive (though perhaps not _too _naive) wizards and witches.

I have been very fortunate. Every so often, since I first requested it, my guards have brought me wads of paper and an ordinary quill and ink so that I may have some privacy in my writing. They are very confused. I know that they search my cell when I have gone to be exercised or simply been taken elsewhere for reasons not entirely unbeknownst to me and yet they find no paper. Just imagine: they have been giving me all this paper and what for? Nothing? Nothing! Surely not!

But it's true. I either eat what I have written (swallow my words, so to speak, ha ha) or simply stuff it into an article of clothing to release to the North Sea winds as I am exercised. Because to begin with, I had no intention to write for others to read my words. I wrote selfishly, partly to prevent my own insanity, partly to occupy myself and partly for the poetic irony. To begin with, I was almost comfortable to die with the words 'Traitor' scrawled in blood over my unmarked grave. To die with the knowledge that I am universally hated by the people I once called my colleagues and allies... At first I thought that it would not affect me, but then I realised that to be foolishness: I may not have liked them or even respected them, but I had grown to know them - their silly quirks and ways of speaking and concerns and fears and goodness knows what other nonsense. So of course it did affect me after all, but I suppressed such emotion and thought to myself, that such is the way of things. Such is the way things must be.

Then another of my memories returned.

And I was reminded, quite abruptly, that there was a _reason._ I may not care for a great deal many people but I am not as most think of me. I am a murderer, true, but I am also a man and perhaps most importantly in light of everything that has happened, a son as well.

So I began to write and keep. No longer swallowing my words. Write and keep, using only my wits to make sure the manuscript was well hidden enough to be found whenever I shall die but not before then.

Write and keep. History in the making.

_'Any corpse that is not destroyed, gets up and kills. Then what it kills gets up and kills and kills'_ - Japanese proverb (adapted)

Chapter One

I think it will be best to start with my parents, and perhaps their parents as well, and so on. I may as well do this properly. I have nearly a century of my lifetime left to while away.

The Prince family are what one would call 'Old Blood' rather than 'Pure Blood'. My great great grandfather once told me that they had records going back to Roman times, when a Briton slave girl had been freed and married her Roman master, thus ensuring the magical line in our family, of the Prince family. Rather like the Dumbledores, in some respects, but I think they originate from Wales. As it is, the Prince family is spectacularly old and has always placed an emphasis on marrying their offspring to the best of the best, rather than insisting their in-laws be pure-blood for at least nine generations. Apparently, the desire for Pure Blood was something introduced by the Normans, which seems likely, because they introduced a lot of customs which the Anglo-Saxons didn't have. For instance, the tradition of a man's estate only going to his eldest son is a Norman custom, which I find quite interesting.

This is why such families are called 'Old Blood'. Whilst some, like the Dumbledores and Princes, have remained pure simply by way of chance, others, like the Malfoys and Lestranges (French, the lot of them), have insisted on it.

When my mother married my father, there was a great commotion in the family because it was the first time that a Prince had married a Muggle. At the time (this being the late fifties after all), they were all struck by the sheer novelty of it and during that period of time, a good deal of my mother's cousins and so on got themselves Muggle sweethearts and followed suit. It seems silly now, but these things happened, just as once upon a time, the Dark Arts received the respect they deserved rather than simply being avoided and smuggled away under lock and key.

Anyway, both families were very pleased: the Snapes because their son had married a family as equally old and (even better) with magic and gold attached and the Princes because their daughter had married into a family as equally old and (even better) with status and gold attatched. As it remains, the Snapes (the Princes decided to amalgamate) are the only family of Muggles and wizards alike who work co-operatively and frequently jump on to both sides of the fence. Their very existence makes a mockery of the Secrecy Act. It is rather eccentric, I'll admit, and I had the damn hardest time trying to cover this up from my fellow Slytherins.

But a lot of the commotion was made by the Pure-blooded faction. This was the time in which Lord Voldemort was on the rise, and the elitist tyranny slowly found a voice to heckle the progressive Wizarding society. A hundred years ago, and the average wizard would have dismissed them as cranks, but in such uncertain and difficult times (or did you think rationing and the necessity of regeneration after the horrendous world war only affected the Muggles?) a previously liberal minded, easy going wizard would find himself actually listening to such people and the dying cries of _l'ancien regime. _

A Prince, to marry a Muggle? The Princes would have been relegated to the status of blood-traitors like the Weasleys (how I pity them) if not for the considerable political clout of my great-great-grandfather and our considerable collective wealth (which was far greater than that of theirs), which they needed in the form of donations for their country manors. Even when I started school, twelve years after my parents' marriage, three years after their deaths, I would hear, when the girls had run out of gossip, the topic being revisited (all of them unaware that the only son of _that woman_ was sitting right there in their midst): how it had been such a disgrace and how she had got herself killed ten years later, serves her right.

You can imagine how much that would hurt a twelve year old who had a hard enough time fitting into a school he was only in due to some favour exchanged by his elders and who had managed to make himself so unpopular, only to hear the young snobs conversing about his mother in such horrible, harsh tones. For all that they supposedly came from such pure families, their language wasn't exactly to their credit, either.

But all this proved very useful.

It seems that espionage runs in the family. My great-great grandfather, for instance, is in fact Head of the Department of Mysteries as well as the WSS (Wizarding Secret Services), though to the public, he is simply another Albus Dumbledore: a very gifted but eccentric, terribly old, wizard. I believe his was the vote that tipped the verdict of that hearing to Harry Potter's favour, those years ago. As it stood, my mother followed his example and became a spy, one of those tracking down the last remains of Grindlewald and ensuring that various Dark Arts rings were at least disbanded if not destroyed. My father too, was an excellent link to the Muggle world, because in those days, Muggle-baiting was far more dangerous than a simple matter of regurgitating toilets and shrinking shoes. It would not be uncommon to find a Muggle who was literally a slave in their own house or who was terrorised out of their wits by wizards. Like I said, those were desperate times and I'm sure that in some perverse way, the Wizarding world must have seen this as rightful punishment to the Muggles for having brought them into (and barely out of) a war that they hadn't had a clue about.

So there you have it. My parents were both spies and I grew up speaking five languages and reading and writing another six, though after the attack, I could barely remember three. I grew up sometimes calling my parents my uncle and aunt in public and sometimes being called by my Muggle name instead of Severus. It was not an ideal upbringing, but I do not think that I was truly unhappy. I loved my parents. In some of my recurring memories, I see myself crying as they argued with each other, but in others laughing as hard as anything (which is very strange for me to watch) whilst they teased one another affectionately. I think it was probably like most childhood's: a strange mix of the sweet and sour.

Which leads me to a certain day (a Wednesday I believe) when I was nine years old and having an early tea with my parents.

Early tea, so it was maybe four o'clock in the evening.

The three of us were seated around the large oak table that was in the kitchen. They say I had a half eaten sandwich near me on the floor when they found us, so it was obvious that the attack took us entirely by surprise.

Before Harry Potter and I managed to kill the Dark Lord, I could never remember the exact details of the attack. All I could see, for decades afterwards, was his face, white and blurred and disfigured, looking over me, with curious satisfaction. I knew that look well having been his most trusted Death Eater. For years afterwards, I could see it in my dreams and how I managed to survive those years as his slave leave me baffled and amazed to this day: having to see that face, that expression at such close quarters and for so long? I am impressed by myself, which is a very rare thing indeed.

No matter (even though it is). In they came, the Dark Lord and six of his Death Eaters. Malfoy (Abraxas that is), Nott, Rosier, Mulciber. Old Lestrange and an even older Dolohov. In they came.

It wasn't easy for them though. My mother had the fastest reflexes that I had ever seen (she always joked that it was her practice at Gobstones that she owed it to. I don't doubt that) and goodness knows she defended herself and her family damn well. My father, too, must not go without credit. The Dark Lord - to his dying day - had a scar in his shoulder that pained him when the cold of winter arrived (despite, for some reason, the newly generated body he had created for himself) and that was from one of my father's throwing knives. However, with no magic... it was a slaughter. They didn't even kill him neatly, rather, they cut at his belly and let him die clenching his jaw and writhing on the floor, surrounded by his own intestines. Of course, they made sure that my mother saw this.

But she kept on going. I can still see her now, the last image I really have of her, pushing me backwards to escape through a secret passage with tears flowing down her cheeks, cursing her murderers for all she was worth as she sent hex after hex and spell and even - eventually - curse after curse at them.

Then they got me.

I struggled, truly I did. But before I turned fifteen (and endured all of the wonders that came with it) I was actually quite small for my age. Anyway, I could only do wandless magic and even that only in the right circumstance.

But I tried.

My experience with the Dark Lord has taught me that perhaps I struggled a little too much for his liking. I have rarely seen him kill children, but usually he prefers his infamous two-step: Crutacius and then Avada Kedavra. And always let the parents watch.

Always.

His was the spell that brought me zooming towards him, and his that shook me up and down as if I were an unwanted toy before (when he realised that he would not be able to do much with a child that struggled so) hurling me backwards against the cupboards (badly damaging two of the neck vertebrae; knocking a hole into the back of my skull) and letting me fall painfully, breaking a leg against the counter and smashing the left side of my skull against the floor.

I remember no more after that, but my later activities informed me that they killed my mother soon afterwards, then left, leaving my half-dead father choking on his own vomit and drowning in his own blood. He would have been the last of us to die, if not for the fact that I was such an obstinate child that my heart just kept on beating.

How I managed to hang on for so long remains a mystery to everyone involved. The elders of my wizard family and the younger, fitter Muggles burst in, they said, about half an hour later. By then, my father had just died. They thought I was dead too, until one of my aunts had the clarity of thought to check my pulse.

As it happened, I survived but I was in a coma for the next eighteen months.

Apparently I woke up screaming, but my Muggle grandfather (who had been, to tell the truth, my favourite) a Doctor, always said that I was probably dreaming and it was just the commotion made by the nurses that woke me up. I trust his judgement: he was a very rational man and if he was unsure of something, he would always say so, rather than force himself to form one opinion or another. He wouldn't say such a thing without good reason, so I believe him. Regardless, I woke up with three metal plates in my head and what would turn into chronic migraines for the rest of my life (though I suffer them only occasionally now).

It was there that it was decided that I was to forget - for my own safety - my family. I was no longer a Prince (which is the name that I and my father had been placed under, oddly enough, for security reasons) but a fully-fledged Snape. Severus Snape to be precise. My muggle name was to be forgotten. Never to be used again. Except of course in private, by my muggle grandparents, who were as stubborn as I was. To them, I was Francis.

Recovery did not take too long. After I had got over the initial grief, I put as much of my focus into learning to walk again. It was painful and frustrating. I would frequently suffer spasm attacks, evidence of a body grown accustomed to lack of use. Sometimes I would collapse for no apparent reason, lying there, looking around me and blinking so hard it was as if I thought that that would help somehow, only to be hauled up by those beautiful, patient nurses who assisted me night and day. Other times, usually in the middle of a meal, I would black out mysteriously, again, only to be righted and mopped by the usual patient angels. There were many such things as well that I had to gain control of, ranging from the most basic (I could not control my fingers well enough to write and so frequently, my hand would whizz across the paper and off the table, hanging from my shoulder and refusing to do anything more) to the most embarrassing. Those nurses. It was always the same ones who helped me, the same faces, the same voices. I grew to love them all.

I do not know what happened to them and now I wish I had found out. They were very kind to me. No doubt they found the work unsatisfying, equally frustrating as I did the recovery and probably wearied of helping a none-too attractive boy child who spent most of his time in determined (or perhaps they saw it as sullen) silence. But they had the decency not to show such feelings to me during my recovery if they truly did find me so terrible a charge after all. That much I would always appreciate.

Three months later, and I was able to walk for perhaps an hour with no assistance and without fatally tiring myself. When that happy moment came, I was led by my grandparents (Muggle and Wizard), and my great-great grandparents to the grave of my mother and father.

One of the strange after effects of the attack was that I had no real memories. I would 'remember' things because I had heard them being told so often that they had simply become part of my knowledge, but I myself had no recollection of them. The only memory I really had was that of the attack and that was hazy and sketchy enough in itself. As I grew older, memories, violent and powerful, would surge from wherever they had been hiding and stun me (even as an adult) into complete silence. But these were brief and sometimes would dim away so that they were little more than badly remembered dreams. Disturbingly enough (though this I never shared with anyone) it seemed that this strange sort of amnesia would spread to cover more recent memories, after the attack. Who was that girl who laughed at me as I failed (repeatedly) to ride that broomstick? Why on earth had that Potter managed to get to it first, or was it just another of his powers, like speaking to snakes and charming not only the wizarding world itself, but also the cleverest wizard of the age? I do not know.

So there I was, standing at the grave of my parents, the grief that I had managed to put aside if only to recover properly, returning with all the tenacity as if I had first heard the news. And yet I was barely able to remember what they had looked like, what they had sounded like, who they were.

And that it was when I began to feel.

If people are meant to be happy (as if that were the basic state of mind, rather than the purely blank and detatched that so many enthuse, which, I feel, tells one a lot about the state of the world we live in today) then happiness cannot truly be described as an emotion. It is with this in mind that I consider hate to be a true feeling. So I began to feel.

I stood before them, over where their heads would be some five foot under, and I began to shake. Gently at first, but then violently enough for my muggle Grandfather to put his arms around me and hold me close to him.

"What's happening?" I asked. "What are they going to do about this?"

Pause.

"Nothing." That was my wizarding grandfather. He always reminded me of Barty Crouch Snr, but it was when I was older that I realised his stiffness was borne out of awkwardness and his desire to remain quiet and unseen.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing."

"Why?" I asked.

That was when my muggle grandfather sighed. His shoulders were set in that way of his that meant he was not going to say anything. He was leaving this to the wizards, who would know what to say. It was their government after all. Knowing him as I did, I knew that that was not a good sign.

"Why?" My great-great grandfather breathed, long moustache and beard being ruffled by the wind. He always looked so silly compared to my clean shaven muggle grandfather, to this day I have not got over it. Perhaps that was why I trusted him (and this hurts to admit it) so little compared to the unquestioning trust I presented my muggle relatives. At times, I would look at my wizarding relatives and think 'damn it. To hell with you all,' so ridiculous and petty did they seem in comparison to the muggles that I knew, who had to put up with being thought of as inferior and mere objects to place spells on, to make them behave properly, as if they were annoying children or troublesome pets. Perhaps that explains my willingness to spill blood, particularly of wizards it seems, over the years. I hated them all.

And my years as a Slytherin helped no less because I ended up hating muggles too. I hated everyone, including myself. But then, as I have always reasoned, I have always had high standards.

"Why?" He repeated. "Because the Ministry don't want a panic, Severus. They want everyone to rest assured that all is well, that no one is being murdered and if it is, it's because they married muggles."

"You see?" My wizard grandfather sneered. "It's all _their _fault. They brought it onto themselves." I remember looking at him surprised. I had never heard him so bitter and sarcastic.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Your parents didn't die, murdered," my muggle grandfather informed me. "They died due to a tragic fire accident."

"A fire accident that mysteriously enough, left the house untouched," my other grandfather added. What followed was a very strange pause. Everything began to flash bright colours and I expected my vision to go dark as it usually did. The psychedelic colours were generally the unwanted heralds of a fainting fit.

"But--"

"It was in the _Prophet_," my great great grandfather interrupted me. "It's official."

So I learned how to feel. Not only that, but I swore my first oath. If my parents weren't going to get justice in this world from those in charge, then they were just going to make do with getting it from their son.


	2. Chapter 2

_'You shall show no mercy: life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,' _- Deuteronomy v21

Chapter Two

I was now a ward of the family. My parents had left all their money to me, but I could not touch this until I was twenty one, another curious custom of my Muggle and Wizarding family. This meant that whilst I grew up, I had to rely on whatever my family could afford to give me.

They were rich, but most of them were misers. Their extravagant reserves of wealth was fit (they reckoned) only for paying for expensive tuition fees for their offspring in University or setting up home for newly weds or for the most magnificent parties. Money was spent in huge amounts, not for small things like clothes and shoes. For that, I would have to earn my own money. It was not uncommon for me to visit a great aunt's house to assist in the library or potions laboratory and notice that there was a small leak in the roof. Were I to mention this defect, the relatives would reassure me and tell me that I was not to worry, 'we'll leave it and see if it gets worse before we do anything about it'. A month or so later, there would be rot in the wooden beams, and unsteady foundations. The house would literally be falling down and only then, when it could be put off no longer, a cheque would be written, worth vast sums of money and sent off without a murmur.

So I was, essentially, poor. And an orphan obsessed with revenge to boot. And so many things besides, I forget.

When my position had been settled, I became my great great grandfathers 'favourite'.

This basically means apprentice. It means that the favourite is considered throughout the family as the heir of whosoever is concerned, and expected to be knowledgeable of things that most remain uninitiated in. As they grow older, they are expected to manage some of the elder's accounts and enact business for them. It is not far from what Potter would have been to Dumbledore had I not cut that particular dealing so brutally short.

There was an unspoken agreement between us. I never mentioned to him of my desire for revenge, and though he must have known about it on some level, I do not think he truly understood how consuming that particular desire was. The reason why I say this is because I remember his look of reluctant acceptance on realising that it was indeed true; that his closest friend and distant relative had been murdered in cold blood by his great great grandson. Like most of the people who I had always assumed would be able to see right through me, he was completely blind to my most obvious defect. Nevertheless, he taught me a great deal. Like my own father, he believed it was important to read as extensively as possible of particular books and to train one's mind to think in precise algorithmic patterns. Typical of the ancient minds whom he so admired, his would frequently return to the same basic point, the same basic philosophy, regardless of his mental excursions. It is not a characteristic of real intelligence that one commonly finds today. The modern mind is the one which rambles and traverses frequently and unashamedly. The classical is quite rigid, relentless and disciplined.

So in this sense, I suppose I am truly a modern man who occasionally likes his algorithms.

I learnt an awful lot of history, instead of magic and what would perhaps have been normally expected. I learned about mathematics, often from first edition prints of the famous mathematicians themselves. I cannot say that I was that good at it, or even that eager, but I suppose, looking back on it now, it is the training that counts.

One of the most important things I learned about was how to research, how to influence opinion, how to speak well and effectively. How to tell if someone was lying (without using magic) how to tell if a person was going to die soon, how to use silence rather than words to question people, how to listen out for clues and answers rather than ask in the first place... so many things, all from watching my great great grandfather dealing with other people: political opponents, fair-weather friends, good old and trusted friends and his spies, too.

I think I was his favourite in both senses of the word. He certainly seemed fonder of me than of my cousins and other relatives of my own age, not that that would have been entirely difficult: they were quite a stuck-up bunch if I recall.

And now I hear my guards approaching my cell for my exercise. It seems strange that so much time has passed. Thinking of my own family always seems to have this strange effect on time. I think that perhaps I should keep on doing it more often.

Before I put this writing away, I think I ought to explain how this routine works. Once every week, I am led through the secret passageways of Azkaban to the open courtyard for my exercise. This is, in truth, an opportunity for them to see if they can satisfy their craving for some evidence of my evil and depraved nature, either by way of mysterious Dark Arts objects that could have somehow been missed during the search that took place when I first entered Azkaban, or some carnal doodling on my wall. I know that I have already disappointed them by my subconscious' apparent unwillingness to share any of my more dastardly secrets at night time. I suspect that they would love nothing better than to hear of me screaming out for forgiveness or giving evidence to some heinous albeit long forgotten crime.

And so here I end. I shall return in some forty-five minutes.

And so, some forty-five minutes later, I return.

My guards in Azkaban are quite fascinating characters. There are three of them. I know them very well by now just as well as they no doubt know me.

The first one, the most important, is Mr. Anumis. He is the perhaps the most terrifying: a little taller than myself, clean-shaven with closely cropped dark blonde hair, he always seems to be wearing velvet in the darkest of greens or purples or reds. I suppose it's his way of flouting the ruling for the guards' uniform. Not that I can blame him. Most of them look more like prisoners than we prisoners do, in their musty grey wool mixes and odd socks and what have you. He is always extremely polite. He always calls me Mr. Prince-Snape (uncanny) and bows to me slightly on entering or leaving my cell. He knows more about the weather than is healthy for a man of his age. And far too much about one's personal hygiene. I can tell he loathes me: not so much on principle, but simply because I do not speak to him and because he has not been able to coax anything out of me as he has with the other prisoners here. He knows nothing about me save what is on my record and I can sense that he is getting increasingly desperate. He is a most sophisticated brute.

The second, a little older, is Mr. Khan. He is actually a Squib who has compensated for his lack of magic by his extensive knowledge on all things magical. I find him very interesting to talk to, because he is more prone to laughter than the other two and, even though we get on comparatively well, he always makes it clear his disgust at what it is that I have done.

"I once met Dumbledore, you know," he sometimes says, very gravely. "You could have at least had the decency to give him a proper fight... but murdering him... defenceless... cold blood. I find that horrible. Revolting. Did you really hate him that much?"

"No," I always say.

"He always stuck up for us lot, us Squibs, even when everyone else treated us like dirt, not just your lot either..." he will usually then go on to say. "Everyone. Tell me, Severus," He would then break off abruptly. "Why d'you do it?"

Then I will be silent and either look at him or at the wall directly behind him.

"Ah, well," he'd sigh. "You must have had your reasons." Then he'd leave and lock the door behind him.

In a strange sort of way, I like him for his predictability. My whole life had been staked on chance. It was chance that my parents and I were at home having early tea when the Death Eaters decided to pay us a call. Chance that I was able to attend Hogwarts, chance that I was to become the favoured punch-bag of the Marauders (oh, happy days!). Chance, chance, chance. People I can only control so much. Most of it is down to chance. Mr. Khan is a welcome relief from this.

He would always enter my cell, knocking first and waiting for me to say 'come in' unlike Mr, Anumis who simply strides in having knocked on the door. He would always say 'good morning' or 'afternoon' and ask how I was. He'd then go on about some minor detail that had happened today or yesterday (if he hadn't been able to see me then), talk about something from the Daily Prophet, then give it to me and discuss the issue with me, as if it were of the utmost importance that I should do so. I have grown very fond of Mr. Khan: he is very well travelled compared to myself and so we usually spend a good deal of our time talking about wizards in other countries.

The third, the last, the least important is also the youngest. He is about as old as I was when I started to work in Hogwarts and a good deal wiser. Or more foolish. I suppose it depends on how you count.

HIs name is Octavius McGill.

Sometimes, I find myself pitying him if only because he is young, surrounded by us ancient ones. He is so eager to do his job well, to uphold his responsibilities and ultimately, to make the wizarding world a better place. I wouldn't say that he is naive, but he is certainly idealistic. He is also unnervingly polite and incredibly clumsy and awkward. The number of times he has knocked into my table during an inspection and thus several of my books, or somehow managed to damage one of the scant items of furniture... that boy.

It was he who encouraged (his one act of defiance, I believe) Mr. Anumis to grant me my request for some paper and ink with which to write. He is such a one for us prisoner's rights.

I suppose it's rather comical. One moment, he will be the stern, young moralist, standing upright between an incredibly anal Mr. Anumis and a more relaxed, twinkling-eyed Mr. Khan. The next, he will be tittering nervously and uncertainly at some comment that I might happen to make and trying to hide his frustration as he attempts the rustic psychological 'persuasions' that the authority promotes those in his position to use on those like me. I do it just to shock him, I admit. Candidly recalling murders is not exactly to my taste, but certainly to blithely defend some atrocious Death Eater policy... ah, heaven. The look of anger, shock, but more often than not, guilty amusement, which he tries so desperately to hide... I love it. He's all too easy, I know: I ought to challenge myself a bit more, but Mr. Anumis is simply out of bounds.

Each of these men will see me once a week at least, especially Mr. Khan. I can't say that I look forward to their visits (even those of Mr. Khan) because their presence eventually begins to irritate me, but they are my contact with the outside world (Mr. Khan and McGill both give me snippets of information about the other prisoners and the dealings in the world outside), and they do look after me, for whatever motive.

Today, it was Mr. Anumis who led me out of my cell to the exercise courts, where I exercised in solitude. I am always grateful that exercise simply means free time, when I can just walk around and inspect the magnificent view of the iron grey of the North Sea.

There are no longer many prisoners in Azkaban. I made sure of that. All the Death Eaters are dead, and the one (or two, if indeed any) that survive are under house arrest. Whatever that means. I know that the Malfoys for a fact have had their lands confiscated for the time being. Perhaps one of Draco's children (if he's to have any) will be fortunate enough to inherit the ruins of the Wiltshire manor. The prisoners that are here, only know me by rumor. They are forbidden to speak to me just as I am to them. Sometimes they are awake when I pass their cells to reach the courts. They are ordered to turn their backs or at least to avert their eyes. Excessive, yes, but there you go.

Once outside, it is a true test of will not to simply end it all and jump from the ramparts of Azkaban. Not that I would, really - I'm not quite that mad yet. Besides, Mr Anumis is a very powerful wizard, and Mr. Khan is physically strong. They would be more than a match for me. I am, of course, forbidden from taking my own life.

It's usually bitterly cold and today was no different. I walked around the stone courtyard, observed the distance, kept on walking. Anything to while the 45 minutes away. I daydreamed, I thought deep thoughts and tried to keep myself warm. It is extremely dull stuff. I would not wish it on anyone.

If I do not walk around that much, they will call me over if only to get me started again. That is when I hate them the most. Whilst I appreciate the opportunity to leave my cell, I certainly do not appreciate being called over for no other reason than to crudely manipulate me into walking when my joints get stiffer and stiffer in the cold. If I pace, or walk around too much, they will stop me and make me keep still for a while. Perhaps they think I am signalling to some obscure ally who hovers on his broomstick in the sky, waiting for the right moment to rescue me. Ha ha. I need rescuing from myself more than anything.

But now I am safely in my cell, back to the monotonous wail of the sea as she pounds against my walls.

Sometimes, I fancy that she is calling for me. Lamenting for the fallen Prince. It could be why she has not driven me insane when most prisoners only last a year or so before going mad. The last man to occupy my cell only lasted a few months before being thrown off the cliff. More merciful that way, Mr. Khan insists. The sea continues to weep, however. Like most women, she is ignored.

It is a pattern that I have seen all too often in my lifetime. My mother always spoke of her chagrin of being ignored by her younger siblings (all dead now: Dragon-pox, broomstick accident, Death Eaters) and then being blamed for any mischief that they had done, and then, when she was older and less pretty, being ignored by her classmates and the young man of her dreams (name long since forgotten). Always pushed to the side, always ignored. When she married my father, none of her fellow witches would take her seriously. They would make slimy insinuations and pretend not to hear what she said. I only know this because I heard her complaining softly to my muggle grandmother when I was supposed to be asleep. My muggle grandmother, too, could remember the days when women weren't expected to have much of an opinion for themselves. She herself was lucky to have had progressive parents who urged her to study, but for what? she had always reasoned. Why get a degree in History and Ancient languages if the only job you could get was as a secretary? Why get a Physics degree if only to become a housewife? To accurately calculate the mass of your side of roast beef?

As a Death Eater, one of the most pitiful sights I had ever witnessed was that of Theodore's mother begging her husband to let Theodore make the decision for himself, whether to become a Death Eater like his father or not. Then there was Narcissa weaping hysterically at the thought of her son being sent to do some thankless task in the process of which he was obviously going to get killed. Then, before them, there was Lily bound by love and duty to follow her husband and stay by his side. That pale insipid creature who happened to be the wife of Barty Crouch Snr, not to mention the nameless girl who had mothered the most powerful Dark wizard in over a century. To hear the way the Dark Lord would sometimes speak of her, as if he'd rather she'd never laid her eyes on his father, had never existed. I had always pitied her, whoever she had been. This was only in private, mind, when none of the pure-bloods were in earshot. To me, his fellow half-blood (whose lineage he was never entirely sure about), he would release scant, but very informative, details of his life.

My great great grandfather, in terms of his attitudes to women, reminds me - especially now - a lot of Mr. Weasley. I learned a great deal from him, not just about the things I have mentioned before, but certainly my interest in the underdog, the hidden and pushed away, was prompted by him. Whilst in his home, I would freely read of everything: books on the Dark Arts fascinated me as did the prospect of ever having that much power, but so did the History of Magic, especially the little details no one seemed to care about; mistresses, secret weddings, small, uncanny points of interest. I suppose that's why I was quite comfortable with my job at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was living history and the fact that such a great man had a penchant for sherbert lemons and socks proved irresistable to someone like me.

But what I really enjoyed during my time as an orphan was the fact that I got to spend more time with my muggle grandparents, who, as I have said, I loved more than anything at that time. They lived in the suburbs of London (much quieter then than they are now) and had a large garden and two tortoises.

My grandmother was a true woman of her age: modest, quiet, humble and unassuming. She knew she was intelligent, yet always bowed (or so it semed) to the assumed superior intellect of her husband. My grandfather, in turn, was a true man of his age: hard-working, logical but incredibly respectful and polite. He was also quite shy. I think this is why he benefited from having married an unassuming woman like my grandmother and also why he got on so well with my wizard grandfather.

I'll give you an example. One day, when I was eleven, shortly before starting Hogwarts, I saw my first black person up close and actually got to speak with him. Although this was the sixties, for someone who had been brought up as I had, I didn't really know anyone yet alone a foreigner. I had seen agents of my parents from distant countries but they had never spoken to me nor I to them. If my parents were still alive, I may have seen more black people on television in those dreadful sitcoms that were so popular then, and in muggle comics (horrible rags, I have to admit), but they weren't, and I hadn't. To speak to someone who was quite clearly a foreigner was quite different from just seeing them.

His name was Bartholomew and he was from Jamaica. I was enchanted by the slang that he used and how dark his skin was compared to his teeth and nails. He was a little wary of me to begin with, but then got talking and revealed himself to be a cheeky, quite bossy little thing who found his new white friend equally fascinating (all the white children he had ever seen wore white and were very deeply tanned and turned up their noses a lot. Neither applied to me in the least). He had only recently arrived in England and was celebrating his first birthday here (it was to be his eleventh) in a few weeks time.

When I brought him to my grandparents' house (the way you would an unexpected treasure. It's quite embarrassing really), it didn't occur to me that my grandparent's would not be their ordinary selves. There was no reason, to my mind, why they shouldn't be. And indeed they weren't. My grandfather managed to get Bartholomew talking about his home country (which I found evern more interesting: bananas growing from trees and plantains that you could eat and sweet potatoes: what on earth did they taste like?...) and my grandmother got him to try a slice of her carrot cake. What really surprised me, was that it took so long for this chatty, lively and very funny boy to open up in front of my grandparents. He seemed almost afraid of them and now, looking back, I realise that he probably was.

My grandmother found him as fascinating as I had. She had not travelled when she was younger. It was my grandfather, having served as a doctor in the navy who had journeyed to the West Indies (he could even speak some of the patois) and it was his usual, determined politeness that had enabled my new friend to open up to him. Not just Bartholomew either: any child, myself included, would mysteriously open up and bloom before my grandfather's careful, polite attention.

I only saw Bartholomew once before moving to live with my wizard relatives permanently when I began to study at Hogwarts. We did exchange letters, though, for a long while into our adulthood. He invited me to his wedding and offered to make me a godfather, but I politely refused the latter. I am forbidden letters now, and no doubt he has been told that I am dead and that he is no longer to send me any more. He had four children the last I heard of. Three boys and a girl. He always kept his humor in spite of it.

Anyway.

There came a point when I could not see even them, particularly as Death Eater activities increased in vehemency. I was not even allowed to visit my grandmother in the last stages of the disease that took her life (something to do with the brain) and only just allowed to attend the funeral. My grandfather did not last long after that, but I was at least allowed to attend to him before he passed away. It is something that still affects me deeply. They were such stoic, honourable people: they had buried their son and daughter-in-law, been forbidden from seeing their only grandchild and remained in the knowledge that there was so much they were not allowed to know. Yet they kept on loving me. Perhaps if they had not died so early on... well. That is neither here nor there, but it would be nice to think that I may have deen deflected from my course of revenge had they lived only a little bit longer.

At the age of eleven, armed with a vicious knowledge of the Dark Arts, Wizarding History and mostly second hand clothes (my robes and books and wand were first hand: a treat from my relatives, would you believe), I entered Hogwarts school.

Albus Dumbledore, fully aware of all that my past entailed, saw it as a duty and a pleasure to educate the great great grandson of his best friend and distant relative and to assist the unfortunate wretch in any way that he could. He also provided me with an allowance with which I could buy my school books without having to work during my education. I suppose I ought to be grateful but all things considered, I'm not. I may not be the most intelligent man in the world, but I am not stupid and with the springboard of opportunity given to me by such well endowed relatives, I'm sure I would have done well enough without a Hogwarts education.

But it certainly had it's uses.

I was entered into Slytherin immediately and thus began my school career.

Did I enjoy my life in Hogwarts? No. I found it immensely dissastisfying, irksome, frustrating and depressing. I did not fit in and eventually, I gave up trying to do so. I can't say that I had any real friends. By the time I may have done, I had grown so tired and cynical of the whole thing that I simply alienated the people around me. They included a range of people, some even from different houses. Lily Evans, I suppose, could be counted as one of them, but as I said, I was sick of the whole lot of them by then and gave her no thanks for whatever it was she did to stand up for me.

Did I find it interesting? No. It was dull, dull dull. Boring lessons, boring teachers, boring students the most colourful of whom simply annoyed me, that damn Slughorn and those Marauders to name a few. Apart from being flipped upside down, tripped up and assaulted at various times, my school life was (up until halfway, that is) monotonous and, to be frank, heart-breakingly, pathetically, mind numbing. My learning was mechanical, though I did excel in not a few areas (Potions, History, Defence against the Dark Arts and most surprsingly, Transfiguration. Maybe it was because McGonagall had been my favourite teacher - and yes it's a little embarrassing to admit it, but it's true: she was the one teacher who I found to be completely honest with me as a student and later on, as a colleague) and I had no real interest in anything except for occasionally making up hexes to use on the Marauders.

The dullness of school life had also worn the edge off my desire to avenge my parents, shamefully enough. Until one evening, when Lucius Malfoy held council in the Slytherin common room.

I despised my fellow Slytherins, and would often attend these things just to sneer at them and contradict them at every turn. None of the Slytherins, particularly the older ones, knew what to make of me. I kept near the most famous and well-known of them for information's sake (a lesson I had learned as my great great grandfather's favourite) and for some excitement, I suppose, to break up the dull routine of school life.

As it happened, I attended this meeting when Lucius Malfoy let slip that his father had once been an active Death Eater and remained one of the Dark Lord's most trusted advisor's and friend. He was boasting of what would happen once the Dark Lord would come into power.

"The first ones to pay won't be the Muggle or the Mudblood or the Squib," he said, daring anyone to object him with those cold grey eyes of his. "No, it'll be the Pureblood who forgets their place... you know who I mean, the sort who cavort with Muggles and Mudbloods as if they were equals. They'll be the first to die, they'll be the first to be taught a lesson. And those of us who've remained faithful and true to ourselves," he shrugged, smiling slightly, "well, what can I say? We'll get the respect we deserve, the respect we've always deserved."

All those present nodded and murmured loudly of their approval.

"Let me tell you what it is that the Ministry don't want you to know," he went on in that thrillingly calm, cold voice of his. "That _we've already begun!_ We've already struck and showed that we are a force to be reckoned with. Have you heard of the Princes?" Of course. Everyone had heard of the Princes. My ears pricked up. "There, you see? It was my father, the Dark Lord and five others who killed the whole lot of them: the traitor, her muggle husband and their bastard son...-"

_Excuse me..._ I remember thinking.

"...but the Ministry said it was a fire. Oh no... how tragic... an accident," he laughed and everyone laughed with him. "But you see? The Ministry are afraid of us, how much more the common witch or wizard. Because they know that we're _unstoppable_."

I would have laughed at them if not for the fact that I was too busy trying not to let the pain show on my face. Back then, it always hurt to think that I could barely remember my parents, despite all of my attempts. I left that meeting abruptly, I recall.

But that was the beginning. I began to hang around Lucius and his cronies a lot after that, in order to get any information that I could to begin my revenge. But this was not the catalyst that I needed. That took place when I was sixteen and I was foolish enough to think that I could ever bring the Maurauders to any sort of justice. My anger does not merit description. It went beyond that. I was furious not only at the Maurauders, but at Dumbledore for his pathetic attempts to placate me, to make me feel sorry for the wretched gang. The worst came when he attempted to convey his sympathy or whatever it was over my parents death... the usual nonsense. It still makes me angry today. He was several years too late and if he thought he was being subtle...

You don't want sympathy or pity at that age, not really. You certainly don't want some old fool thinking that he knows you better than you know yourself. But I was just practise, I now realise. He knew what not to say when it came to Potter, after that. He's been trying to apologise to me ever since, that Dumbledore. Earlier on on that very day I killed him, he had been telling me that he knew he had failed me and been unnecessarily harsh to me and I swear he died trying to apologise to me. I feel a bit sorry for him, because of that, but it doesn't stop me being angry at his astounding arrogance.

I officially joined the Death Eaters when I was nineteen. Between my sixth year and then, I garnered enough information to begin my killing spree. I had to gain the Dark Lord's confidence and trust, then win that of my peers and then that of his older cronies. Several months wasted being polite and helpful and asking the right questions and being unobtrusive when I could have been killing the bastards. But I waited. I worked and bided my time.

It all paid off in the end.


	3. Chapter 3

_'I've immersed my body in the river of vengeance/ and thrown away my youth many moons ago... Oh, is the world a dream or an illusion/ I am all alone in jail.'_ 'The Flower of Carnage' Meiko Kaji (adapted).

Chapter Three

Last night, Mr. Khan came to visit me. "Someone's made an appointment to see you," he said almost cheerfully. "You better make yourself presentable..."

"You mean I'm not already?" I ask lightly. I have always been so sure to keep myself clean shaven and well dressed (as it is possible), I was a little hurt.

"No, no," he reassured me. "But you know what I mean. Get out your eau-de-cologne or whatever it is," he then said something in French which I did not understand and laughed to himself, seeing the look on my face. I hoped that it conveyed all the disbelief that I was feeling just then. "Never mind," he said soothingly, by way of explanation. "I'm not allowed to tell you who it is that's coming, but all I can say is that you ought to look your best."

That told me all I needed to know.

I woke up at my usual time this morning. I have been writing (if my intestines speak true) since five in the morning. The sea is unusually calm. A good omen.

At around nine in the morning, Mr. Anumis strides into my cell and says, "Mr. Prince-Snape: if you'd kindly follow me, please. You have a guest who awaits you." It's the usual phrase: he has said it every time someone has paid a call on me.

Flanked by Mr. Khan and Octavius, I am led by Mr. Anumis to the visiting hall, which is now empty and still smelling slightly of mothballs and perfume of the previous visitors. There is indeed someone sitting there, on the opposite side of a forlorn looking table, waiting for me. He does not look up when I enter and only stirrs (he is reading and making some notes) when I sit directly opposite him.

It's my son, Francis.

If there's one thing that I take comfort in, it is that my guards (especially Mr. Anumis and Octavius) are scared of my son. I've never quite understood the effect he has on other people, probably because I'm his father, not least his effect on Mr. Anumis who even I myself am quite terrified of, being, in my view, the most dangerous and clever of my guards. I suppose it's partly because he's so tall, taller than me even and taller than Mr. Anumis.

Francis, aside from being tall (he is well over six feet), is also of a stockier build than I, something that he has inherited from his muggle grandfather. He has broad shoulders, large, strong hands and generally has no trouble in making his presence felt, wherever he is. He also wears glasses: the ridiculously strange old fashioned sort, with iron, circle frames. I could never understand why he liked them so much or what made him to buy them. But then, my son is often like that. He has gone through a number of different phases, though substantially less than those of the average person, I'd admit. There was a time he would go everywhere with a large black umbrella hooked on an arm, wearing pale coloured clothes (linen suits and all the rest of it: he had some of the Elders screaming at the sheer excess of it all). Then there was the time when he suddenly became interested in botany, then anthropology. He used to read dictionaries for bedtime stories (though that phase was particularly short lived to my great relief) but he'd promptly forget everything he'd read. I can remember well into my teaching career in Hogwarts, casually asking him for some trivial information to mark my students' homework with, safely assured in the knowledge that he of all people, would know.

Although he has inherited his skin tone from his mother, everything about him betrays the fact that it was I who fathered him. He has my nose, my eyes and the same oval shaped face as I. Even when he was younger, when I looked into his face to scold him or greet him, I was always struck by how like me he was - at times it seemed that I was simply talking to a younger version of myself. Now is no different. He is so still and quiet, you would be forgiven for thinking that he was deaf or blind. Being so alike, I know it is simply his way of setting his own time and pace for this meeting, regardless of whatever my guards may do or say.

Finally he looks up at me and smiles warmly. It always looks strange to see my face contort into so alien a vision. "Hello Father," he says. "How are you?"

I tell him that I am well and that my guards have still managed to maintain their polite facade, despite my best efforts. He laughs shortly and I can see Mr. Khan's lips twitch from the corner of my eye.

"That's good. Mother sends her love, by the way, as do the twins. Have you heard from them?" He always asks this.

"I'm not allowed letters, you seem to have forgotten." I say slowly.

Francis blinks at me, then frowns slightly. "Well that won't do. They're both studying at Uni now - they'll never be able to visit you."

Give it two weeks, I think to myself, and the letters will come pouring in. I can sense the intent radiating from Francis. He is such a stubborn boy, only I could have possibly been his father. Mr. Anumis can sense it too, because I see him stiffen and hear him move slightly, uncomfortably. This isn't the first time something like this has happened and it won't be the last. Could a man love his son any more than I did at that moment? It was wonderful to see Francis in a position of power against my captors, however polite they may be.

"Oh, well," he continues. "I have good news, Father," he pauses, looking at me carefully to see my reaction to the knowledge that a glimmer of hope exists. "They have postponed your trial indefinitely." He actually smiles, so suddenly that its alarming. I can't help myself: my lips twitch.

"See, I knew that should cheer you up. As it happens, time has passed and the wizarding world has more pressing matters at hand. The Ministry can safely pretend that you don't exist. And in a way they're still grateful that you ensured the removal of most of the Death Eaters from society." He folds a handkerchief into quarters, quiet triumph in his features. "Only people like the Diggory's are clamouring for your trial. But the Ministry is smart enough to see that that would be a huge mistake. They know perfectly well that I'd hire the best lawyers - and probably revolutionise the use of Wizarding law for all time," he smiles ironically and shakes his head. "You wouldn't be able to get off murder charges, mind, or involvement with the Death Eaters..." He gives me a careful look.

"I wouldn't expect to," I interrupt. Neither would I want to, though I don't say this. I do have some concept of justice and well does my son know it. He nods.

"But certainly a good deal of the truth would come out and it would seriously damage the Ministry of Magic, not to mention the very way wizarding society looks at itself."

What a marvel. Most fathers are proud of their sons, and most who are proud are excessively so, and I gladly count myself among them. At times I wish I were as intelligent as Francis is, at that age: I could have saved myself an awful lot of trouble. Francis notices me staring at him and grins randomly. He used to do that a lot when he was younger. Now, defending his murderous father has taken that away, much in the same way that avenging my parents stole my youth away from me.

It was selfish, what I did. I was deluded enough to think that I could have a private life, that I could fall in love and have children whilst at the same time hunting down my parents' killers and spying for my family. What a fool I was. But in a way I am grateful for that foolishness for it has given me something to comfort myself with today.

We continue to talk. I ask him about the family, the two tortoises (who may just manage to outlive me), and the remainders of the Order. He asks me about my health (is my hearing any the worse for being kept at so close quarters to the relentless pounding of the sea? How are my eyes? Do I still get the migraines?) and the state of the prison now, as far as I might know. We then discuss his siblings and his mother and what funny things have taken place since the last time he visited me. Then it's back to some ridiculous trivia. A cynical take on the latest policies of the governments (both wizarding and muggle), restarts by failing companies and the drivel that is most of popular culture. I have certainly missed this: Francis, being my first, was always the closest to my heart. I suppose that's the thing with being a parent: you expect the first born to behave more like an adult than you do by the time the next one comes along, if only because you're just as clueless as they are, if not more so. And, having spent more time with you, they generally turn out to be more able than you are by a long way. It's one of those strange things, I suppose.

An hour or so passes before Francis lifts some stray strands of hair out of his eyes and bids me goodbye. He kisses me in a businesslike manner, once on each cheek and nods stiffly to Mr. Anumis who shows him out. I watch him leave. He treads his way carefully as if trying not to step on some hidden booby-trap. For one so large, his self-conscious formality and grace is quite surprising. I probably won't see him for another fortnight. I am very fortunate that my son takes such care to visit me so often.

Sometimes, I feel guilty that I have caused Francis so much trouble; whilst most young men are thinking about their girlfriends (or lack of any), their studies or some such thing, my own is wondering how on earth to keep his Father out of the limelight, and to keep up his duty as a son in such difficult times. The rest of the time, I just don't think about it.

It is not just Francis who I have heard from. When I first arrived in Azkaban, the authorities did not think that anyone would want to write to me, but a few did. They weren't the expected hate mail (to my surprise) because, I think, those who would have wanted to send me such things must have thought it unlikely that the warders would allow me any post. Instead I received pathetic letters demanding (or not quite demanding in the case of Remus Lupin) a reason for all that I had done and so on and so forth from some of the members of the old Order, others from my family. Some of them were quite touching. It was then that the authorities clamped down on any post directed to me.

The guards are always at their most amusing around my son. Mr. Anumis is thin-lipped, pale (occasionally sweating slightly), eyes flashing, jaws clenched. He instantly relaxes once Francis leaves his presence. I think they had some sort of an argument when I first got here. He doesn't speak to him directly, (if he speaks to him at all) and pretends that he cannot see him. Francis is probably oblivious to this: he thinks Mr. Anumis suffers from constipation.

Mr. Khan is slightly better. I think he is as proud of Francis as I am. "Your son is quite something isn't he?" He'll say to which I might nod or look at him in a rather bemused sort of way. "You should be well proud of him. Asked me how I was when he came by to make his appointment. Smart lad you've got there, Mr. Snape. What a polite kid..."

Octavius, however, simply stutters all the time and drops things.

Now that I am writing this, the first thing that comes to my head is that by the time I was Francis' age, I was settling down to business as a Potions Master in Hogwarts, having managed to convince Dumbledore of my trustworthiness. By the time I was Francis' age, five out of the seven who had killed my parents were dead by my own hand. Only the Dark Lord and Dolohov were left. I can remember my desperate state by that time. My task seemed nigh impossible.

Nott was the first one to die. He had been the most difficult to win around, the most suspicious of the old Death Eaters and so I wasted no time in dispatching him before he would suspect me and have me executed by the Dark Lord. He was also the most useful: it was his memory that helped me make up the last moments of my parents' lives and him who ensured that I would succeed in all my future missions. He was the hardest to kill.

The Dark Lord had sent me to Nott to bring some book full of carnal knowledge of some sort for Nott had a very extensive library and was possibly as well versed in the Dark Arts as the Dark Lord himself. Nott was never particularly happy about the arrangement and as he led me into the library; he muttered all the while as to why his own son couldn't have performed the deed for the Dark Lord.

Once inside the library, I let him walk some way ahead of me, so that he would not be able to see me lock the door and cast a spell to make it soundproof. I looked up and checked that all the windows were closed: the library was on the far side of the manor and so no one would be able to hear anything from outside. He called out roughly to me and I apologised as I caught up with him to which he merely hmphed. Being in that library, I experienced a surge of anger that such a murderous, twisted fiend could be living in so much luxury, attended upon by house elves, safe in the knowledge that no one knew of the things he had done in his past, whilst my parents had been forced to die in the most ignoble way possible and made to witness what they no doubt believed to be their only son's death.

After summoning the book to him, he turned round to hand it to me and that is when I first struck him.

It was only a Crutacius curse. I had my plans to keep him alive for as long as possible, if only to extract the memory of my parents' demise. I wasn't particularly enthralled by the idea of torturing my victims: a kill was easy enough to do so long as I remembered not to use my wand to do it.

For someone so skilled in performing the most gruesome of tortures, Nott had certainly no tolerance for pain himself. Within seconds of the curse being performed, he vomited on the floor and would have begun convulsing if I hadn't stopped. I was fastidious then. I hated the sight of vomit or anything like that.

"Who are you?" He spat at last. He was an intelligent man, that Nott.

"Severus Snape," I replied. "Tell me," I went on, almost conversationally. "Do you recall a certain Eileen Prince? Married a..."

"Muggle," he spat out viciously, teeth and blood hurtling from his mouth. "That whore!"

"Damn you!" I smashed my foot into his head and left him spluttering and shaking slightly. I had to be careful: this could have been a way to catch me off my guard. Although he had no stomach for pain, he was quite disciplined in his way of controlling his mind under whatever conditions. He could easily exaggerate his condition to eventually kill me before I could set another finger on him. "Just answer the question please."

There was a hateful pause before he eventually said yes. I nodded.

"Thank you. Do you recall the name of their son?"

He sneered. "No. Should I?"

"Or the surname of the Muggle?"

"No, I -"

"Obviously," I interrupted him. "Seems a stupid question. Of course you didn't because if you did... well..." I shrugged. "I'd probably be dead by now." Then I looked at him again, directly into his eyes. There was another pause, but this one was full of recognition and fear. Nott's eyes widened and his breath rattled in his throat. Then, in an instant, his brow furrowed, his face twisted with rage and he leapt up, knocking me back so that hit my head against the mantelpiece before lying flat on my back. I cursed myself and swore repeatedly in my head as I tried to get up in time. I succeeded, only for Nott to aim a stunning spell at me that I had to dodge.

His face was terrifying to behold. "You... you... you fooled us all!" He aimed another spell at me which I deflected, gasping for breath. "Even the Dark Lord... how? How did you manage to... to take us all in? Who are you? Who are you really? One of Dumbledore's _spies..._Or from that muggle-loving, traitorous family itself?"

"You know who I am," I said in a low voice that frightened even me. I looked up at him between my hair which had fallen over my face. I winced, straightened up and swung it aside with a flick of my head. I remember thinking that I should have cut it before hand.

"No... you can't..."

"Why not?" I snapped, my head aching. I could feel one of those migraines coming along. "You never checked to see if I was ali-" before I finished the sentence, I had whipped out my wand and hurled him to the floor then performed a body binding curse quickly, knowing that I would get no chance otherwise. Once Nott was on the floor, I grabbed his wand. "-alive," I finished my sentence. "Did you?"

He gasped and cursed me in the foulest language imaginable.

Then I stooped down to the floor and put my own wand to his head. "How did they die?" I asked.

It took him a few moments, before he contemptuously rolled his eyes and looked away from me. I tortured him some more but still he refused. Eventually I warned him that I would simply force my way into his mind, but even then he refused to relent, and so that is what I did.

By the time I had finished, I had garnered several other bits of information as well, about the other Death Eaters, the Dark Lord and the way he organised everyone to do their duty and what he was planning to do. When I had gleaned this from him, Nott suddenly looked old and defeated and I realised he was regretting taking such a stance instead of having given me the information I had wanted in the first place.

Not wishing to waste any more time, I killed him with his own wand, before taking the book and leaving, clearing up any signs of a struggle. It would look more like a suicide than anything, and after a while, people would forget and life would go on. No one would suspect that someone as powerful as Nott could have been taken down by a youth like me and besides, I was about to gain myself an alibi.

Following this, it was quite easy to dispatch of the rest of them. I was always aware that the Dark Lord would wake up one morning and suddenly become awfully suspicious as to why his Death Eaters were all dying off. I had to be incredibly careful and the strain nearly drove me to collapse.

Some were easier than others: Abraxas Malfoy, for instance, was severely weakened by dragon pox (it was in it's final stages) and killing him was strangely satisfying, if only because I had to do the murder quickly and efficiently, without causing too much suspicion and yet make sure he knew who it was who was putting an end to his miserable life. The look on his face was very pleasing. I was, after all, the young man with whom his own son had made friends with so quickly, who had so much of the Dark Lord's trust... It was laughable. I almost enjoyed myself. But, as they say, vengeance is a dish best served cold.

The funeral was magnificent. A far better one than would be afforded his son, unfortunately. I had no hand in Lucius' death, and so felt quite sad when he died: he had been, save from Bartholomew and the woman who I would later claim as my wife (flippantly, I'll admit) something of a friend.

Until the Dark Lord sent me to gain employment from Dumbledore, I was one of the more covert members of the Death Eaters. I was rarely sent out on field work, and there came a point where I could simply refuse to torture Muggles (I managed to get away with that because I was seen as something of a threat to the Dark Lord, who had always been a complacent underachiever when it came to later studies of magic as an adult, I always thought. But then, perhaps I flatter myself), if I was not in the mood. My life as a Death Eater was only a little more interesting than life as a student in Hogwarts. I spent most of my time doing research for some vaguely thought out ambition to publish a complete history of magic and treatises on the Dark Arts and so on. Philosophical works were a rarity then. No doubt the novelty may have helped them to sell, I seemed to think at the time.

My work as a Death Eater helped a great deal, though. I learned more about the use of Dark Arts through the ages (the Dark Lord proved as interested in the subject as I) and, most usefully, about wizarding society. I had been cut off, when I really come to think about it, from society on the whole, muggle or wizarding. So often did I flit between the two as well as that private, third world of the eccentric family, migraines and a burning hate for just about everything and everyone except the most fortunate of individuals. My time with with the Death Eaters turned me into something of a socialite, with a growing taste for elf-made wines and rich, dark clothes and being waited upon hand and foot by trembling elves. It also transformed the more petty, finicky young man that I was into something with more depth and a hardened soul. I learned how to make jokes that were suitable for various company, how to make light conversation, even how to toast properly and relieve the trickiest of situations with a minimum shedding of blood.

Impressive as these things no doubt were, none of them particularly impressed my young wife, Moralis.

We had married young as it was acceptable in those times to do. Both of us (on the surface at least) were poor, young, idealistic. Our fellows were getting married and having babies left, right and centre. To a certain degree, we had the approval of the older generation to an extent which would not exist for the generation we have spawned. I certainly would be displeased if Francis had already been married and had children by his age, not to talk of the twins. But in those times, a heady mix of sexual revolution and political awareness and riots, young marriages were still the norm for people like Moralis and I.

I met my wife when I was seventeen, during my last holidays before I would be to leave Hogwarts for the first time. On a rare excursion to the muggle world, I made my way to the local library, a grim old Victorian building with a desperate need for a new coating of paint, looking for some Ancient Greek text (I forget what it was now. Needless to say, I went through similar phases as my son did). I found it eventually, but, just as I was checking the book out, the young woman next to me caught sight of it and began to gesticulate towards it.

"Yes?" The librarian said. I turned to look at the girl standing next to me.

She came up to my ear and was almost as skinny as I was, with the strangest sort of hair I had seen. It reminded me very much of Bartholomew's wiry curls, but it had a remarkably soft sheen to it. Her skin was a pale brown, the colour of coffee with milk. She was generally strange anyway. She wore glasses (nothing like the trendy frames one finds in those opthomerists today, but the plastic NHS ones that were the bane of her life) and dressed in old-fashioned clothes, that looked as if they'd come from World War Two utility stock, but had been re-cut to suit the styles of the seventies.

"Ah," the librarian said, "Miss Toksvig... how may I help?"

"I'm sorry," she began, avoiding my gaze at first and looking directly at the librarian, "but I've been waiting for that book for ages. I was even put down on the waiting list for it. I wondered if it had been returned, but I couldn't find it and now I realise that it's about to be taken out again for another indefinite period of time." I blushed a little at that because I had no intention of returning the book. She finally looked at me and gave me a polite, distant smile before returning to the librarian. "So I was wondering if you could let me take this book. Please."

This was an unexpected turn of events to say the least. I remember looking from her to the librarian wondering what on earth would happen next. Finally, the librarian bit his lip and said appealingly to me, "She _has _been waiting a long time for it. And it's very important for her... I believe she's studying Ancient Greek at school..." I looked at this Miss Toksvig and she nodded a little, embarrassed, flustered. "So you see... do you mind _so _terribly, sir?"

Of course, as it happened, I suddenly felt that I didn't. This girl intrigued me (how many girls do you meet who study Anicent Greek at school? And that surname, it sounded Swedish...) and so I graciously let it go. I was thrilled and amused to see her trying to conceal her happiness and relief, and her awkwardness in thanking me. I dipped my head in acknowledgement, in as stately a way as I could manage.

Ah yes, now I remember, it was something by Herodotus, but whether it was his first or fourth book, I can't remember.

The upshot of it all was that I ended up walking her home and got to know her quite well. We spoke about the stupidest of things, but, being young and drawn to extremes as most young people are, we both found the conversation incredibly striking and deep. Things like politics, the true meaning of revolution, even Sartre no doubt.

My God, it makes me laugh to think that we (especially she, my Athena as I once christened her in a fit of emotion, who was always so rational and an odd mix of geniality and aloofness) were ever that naive and stupid and uninformed.

By the time I had reached the house in which she lived with her uncle and aunt, it was late and so she invited me for tea (I feel incredibly old when I say that you couldn't do that these days), which I enjoyed. Strange, considering that I'd only met her a few hours before, but true nevertheless. Her uncle and aunt were surprisingly welcoming, for all my being a complete stranger. I suppose Moralis introducing me as a fellow 'scholar' helped with that. I actually felt at home.

As could be expected, though, it was then that the Dark Lord realised he needed my services for something or other and so I had to leave their cosy sitting room and apparate to some unknown location where I would torture innocents and shout for the enslavement of the Muggle population.

It's always been my one source of true guilt. What I have done to my children, well, I can rationalise that to myself, say that they had a choice as much as I did whether or not to avenge my parents. I can claim that it would be arrogant to take so much of the blame: that there were other factors that I have not accounted for. Or I can simply ignore it and just be grateful that I have such devoted offspring. But not so with my wife. After all, Moralis had a choice that our children didn't. They did not choose to be borne to me; Moralis, however, made a choice to marry me and (I believe) to continue loving me. I cannot account for her. She can only account for herself. I suppose what I really feel, if I am to be truly honest with myself, is a sort of panicky awareness, in that she is very much a random card in my ordered deck; that she is outside my control.

For this reason, she has always enthralled me. It strikes me how all of my closest friends are those from backgrounds and of characters far and away from my own: Bartholomew, my childhood friend from Jamaica, talkative, passionate, who later would succeed in entering one of the best Universities in the country, in spite of all that counted against him; Lucius Malfoy, rich, upper-class with a confidence that was completely alien to someone like myself and with far too much money at his disposal; Moralis, wiser than she ought to be, and capable of seeing through the layers most people are not even aware exist, the only woman I would ever count as a friend as well as a lover, equally as successful as Bartholomew in her own right, with as much counting against her as anybody.

One of the first things we ever did together was to attend those underground meetings that are now legend in modern social history: the sorts of groups from which spring revolutionary poets and artists and philosophers and writers. During my holidays and long weekends when I had no lessons to occupy me, I would apparate my way to M and make myself at home amongst the new breed of hippies and agitated youth. What did we talk about? I really have no idea, but I recall it being a lot of fun.

Of course, it was at this time that I was exterminating the murderers of my parents and bowing to the Dark Lord whilst uttering obscene oaths and torturing and killing, the majority of whom died simply on a whim.

But even in the wizarding world, Moralis had an effect on me. It was her influence (though she was not to know it at the time) that made me urge the Dark Lord to withold making me torture and kill Muggles as often as he normally would have done. By that time, I had proved my loyalty, and so the Dark Lord granted me my request, assured that the recent execution of Regulus Black was enough of a deterrent against any other similar attempts at rebellion. There would be times when I would ignore the painful summonings just to spend just a few more minutes talking to her, only to be tortured most cruelly for disobeying the Dark Lord's call at the next meeting. Eventually, it became accepted amongst the Death Eaters and to the Dark Lord, that I was to be one of the more privileged ones; That, loyal as I was, I had agendas of my own elsewhere. How I managed to get away with this and live is something I still marvel at today. No doubt Lucius Malfoy helped a great deal.

But that particular friendship is another story.

Time passed. A year later and she had helped me read those books by Herodotus for myself, having tutored me in my Ancient Greek (and then Latin): she was never a one to let ignorance flourish. By that time, we had started sleeping together. By that time, I had only two on my list left to kill.

This may seem a little ridiculous, but it has now occurred to me just how surreal that period of time was. That is the precise reason why I am writing this, of course: to help organise my motives and my past, but that doesn't stop it from seeming strange even to myself.

For one to hold such a contradiction of thoughts and experiences within oneself is not in itself really that strange: for me, my muggle life and my wizarding life were two entirely separate, complex states of existence of their own. I was able to sleep with Moralis, argue a little over where we should get an apartment (or if we should even live with each other at all and not just continue as we were then), and then argue some more over what we'd be doing next week (the demo or the cheap restaurant that her old schoolfriend had opened?) and then be summoned in the dead of night, making some pathetic excuse to her before struggling into clothes and rushing off to see to the Dark Lords requests, or murdering some middle-aged man in revenge.

Moralis, as you have no doubt realised, is a Muggle. That was something else which I did not seem to have any difficulty in assimilating with the rest of my existence. I would feel no guilt whatsoever as I made fun of and cursed the Muggle population with Lucius: it never occurred to me that Moralis and our friends in those underground societies were included, but of course - _of course - _ they were.

Killing Muggles was relatively easy for me as well because, in spite of what is commonly believed, I killed as many wizards and Squibs amongst others as I did Muggles. Torture for it's own sake held no appeal to me. I always saw it as a waste of magic if done simply for fun and I simply couldn't stand the sight of anyone rolling around on the ground. I have always valued the virtue of continence and so performing the Crutacius curse has never been to my tastes. People can make an unspeakable mess when they're in pain.

Is that to say that I have always had a deep-rooted superiority complex against my wife? I cannot say that I did. In many ways, she was my superior, having had a more extensive education, a wider circle of friends and being generally more knowledgable in matters of the world than I. I loved her (and still do) with a passion that veered at times to the almost self-destructive. It mattered not a jot to me that seeing her would cause me unspeakable pain when next I would gather with my fellow hooded ones. In a disturbing sort of way, that almost intensified my love for her. One of the things that cut me the most deeply about my life sentence in Azkaban was that, as a Muggle, Moralis would not be able to see me. After all, there are numerous enchantments about the place which makes Azkaban prison practically non-existent to the Muggle eye and that makes it nigh impossible to ever be visited by my wife.

I suppose it really comes down to the obvious: those nameless victims in the past barely register. We were at war, and they were (not to be too dramatic) the enemy. Those that I knew and were closest too, well, I would not have dreamt of any harm coming to them. The base hypocrisy of mankind.

And now I am getting sentimental.

It was shortly after our first son was born (Francis) that we decided to get married. That was when I revealed to my great great grandfather that I even had a life outside of visiting his home and helping him with his studies and so on. He was shocked to hear that I was involved with anyone on such intimate terms, and at first urged me to give it up and leave it all behind. This I would not do, of course. He then tried to persuade me not to get married, but I knew enough of the world to know that as liberal and enlightened as my generation had become, it was the older generation - our employers, basically - who we would have the problem with and so I insisted that Moralis and I should get married.

Then he advised deception of a lesser sort: that I sign the registrer as a Prince and not a Snape, but that I would not accede to either. Finally, he agreed to have my young family protected to the best of his ability and let me go ahead with the Civil wedding. And so Moralis bcame my wife.

And he has done a thorough job of it, I must say. Even Dumbledore himself remained completely unaware of the existence of my family, not to mention my colleagues and even some of the Family itself. Only my guards know, for instance, that Francis is my 'son'. The authorities are not even sure of what relation he has to me.

Eventually, there came a point in time when I could no longer hide from Moralis my actual identity. This point came a few months before she became pregnant with Francis, in truth. She took it remarkably well, though at times I suspect she is still getting over the shock. I introduced her to a few members of my muggle family and to my great great grandfather and I was pleased to see that she had impressed them as much as she had done me. Strangely, she has always gotten on better with the few members of my wizarding family who know of her, than I have ever done. Certainly she captivated my great great grandfather for one and he always spoke very fondly of her.

As such, it was a rare thing for me to hide anything from her and once my wizarding identity was out of the way, I was able to tell her a good deal more, most of which I had not even told my great great grandfather. What can I say? She was always the steadier partner in our relationship (something which Francis has evidently inherited) and whilst she never pretended to approve of what I was doing, she nevertheless made sure that I knew she would always have her arms open for me.

This would make me a little self-conscious, I'd have to admit: I would wonder if the feelings she claimed to have were somewhat falsified. After all, how could anyone like her feel affection on any level for someone as murderous as I? But goodness knows that the human mind is complex and strange enough, and the human heart capable of being open anough to accomodate such things, as I later realised.

We had two more children who were a good deal more unexpected than Francis. They are the twins, Vida and Cronan, born only a month or so after 'The Boy who lived' (and is now dead) himself. When the Dark Lord fell, I was able to spend more time with them, which was pleasant despite my initial misgivings.

Thus far has my life progressed, until the year when Sirius Black escaped from his prison - with no thought as to what may follow, as always - and the Dark Lord was reunited with his most dangerous supporter of us all.


	4. Chapter 4

'Revenge is a dish best served cold.' (supposed Klingon proverb)

Chapter Four

Today, I am paid an unexpected visit from Mr. Anumis.

He knocks on the door as usual and, as usual, bursts in without my having voiced my approval. I was lying on the bed at the time, drifting off to sleep, and as he enters, I simply open my eyes, not bothering to get up. Damn him for his impudence.

I am not in the best of moods.

Neither, it seems, is Mr. Anumis for he abruptly takes out a chair from underneath my writing table and sits on it, glaring at me. Then he clears his throat and begins to talk. He is clearly lying: there is a thin frown line of the utmost concentration on his forehead and his hands are completely stationery whereas normally, they would be moving around expressively. I look at his face, but avoid his eyes.

"Mr. Prince Snape," he begins. "Due to the... request of your son Francis, the authorities have agreed to allow you letters from various associates outside Azkaban prison." He flares his nostrils as he says 'son' as if it were the most distasteful thing he had ever come across. I'd almost be amused if I weren't so tired. "These will only be accepted from a limited number of people and," he places extra emphasis on this word, and my ears prick up, "and they will be opened and read by myself and your fellow warders before they get to you."

Fair enough, I think. What else would I have expected?

I nod.

"I am glad that we have both come to an agreement on the matter, Mr. Prince Snape," he clears his throat again and smooths out his robes. "Now, as for your impending trial..."

I look at him sharply and notice with no small amount of horror, that there is a small smile curling on his lips. Ever the professional, he smothers it and continues to speak. "Because you will get one, I'll make sure of that..." This time, the smile unfurls, uninhibited and near-manical. It was at that moment that whatever fear I had had of Mr. Anumis vanished. He was no more a sophisticated brute than I was. He was just another of us sad wrecks that the Dark Lord had left in his path, another of us trying to lead our own lives for once... I shook my head. He misinterpreted it and added, "don't you worry, sir... I'll make sure they go easy on you, though... it would certainly be less traumatic for yourself if your son didn't get involved..."

I nearly swear out loud at him.

"Unless you want to make it easy for yourself..." He says in a low voice, examining his nails, "and confess."

"Confess what?" I ask wearily.

"You deny you have anything to confess?" He immediately snaps back. I simply look at him tiredly. I have been through two years of this sort of interrogation. It's not going to work. I am tired with the lot of them and certainly the epic that I have currently stowed away, hidden in separate places, is giving me a firmer grip on my reality than ever. I will not be reduced to the state of making over-dramatic, pre-prepared confessions in court. I have a book to write.

"Did I say that?" I respond coolly. "I am merely trying to say that I know all too well how you people operate, charmingly polite as you are... If I do not confess to one thing, you will make me confess to another. I have nothing more to confess to. You know what I am here for: that is all I could possibly have to confess to..." Damn, I am thinking to myself. It is on a day like this that I need Francis. Or Moralis. Moralis.

Mr. Anumis looks at me carefully and a horrible thought comes to my head: he looks just like Lucius did the first time he tortured a Muggle and killed her. Well, it was as my muggle grandfather had always said - we reap what we sow.

The silence is just the sort that I would have used to interrogate my students with. It is the sort that can make someone blurt something out at the last minute, in an attempt to kill it.

"Mr. Anumis," I say finally. "Please go away."

I should have known better. Perhaps I was so tired that I didn't realise that I had spoken aloud. I am now under solitary confinement - I am not to be visited by anyone for as long as Mr. Anumis wishes.

It has been three days now since that particular outburst of mine and they have even stopped supplying me paper: I only have three more sheets after this one and my handwriting is already very small. I am feeling a little depressed about the turn of events and am in no mood to even think about my past, but I have always enjoyed musing over my immediate family, and so that is what I shall do.

As I have already mentioned, I have three children. Francis, Vida and Cronan, the last two being twins. Francis is my favourite, even though I am not supposed to have any, but I have always had a soft spot for Vida, my only girl. That doesn't make Cronan my least favourite. In many a way, he is the most normal of the three of them, and I greatly appreciate this because it has always provided me a strong hold on reality. His siblings have the tendency to be solitary, aloof and generally strange in some of their habits, as well as the tendency to be dreamers. Cronan is the often gloomy realist. Something of an Eeyore, I suspect.

Paranoia is not a state of mind that has been particularly common for me. Neither is the feeling of being content. However, I experienced both of these in plenty once the twins were born.

With just Francis, our family unit was easily manoeuvrable - it was easy enough to deal with just the one child, quiet and uninterfering as he was. With the twins, however, suddenly we were transformed into a real, bustling family with concerns for a budget, where we would be living and the standards of life we could afford. During the holidays, on the rare occasion that I would come to visit them, I would go to bed, and be wide awake all night, trying desperately to think of any back-up strategies should the Dark Lord return or, when he eventually did, discover my secret family.

The contentment was for the daytime. I was always content in the knowledge of the fact that my children were, well, mine. They were all quite intelligent and very silly and stubborn, as children are apt to be. Hearing them read, or reading to them for example, always made me feel strangely satisfied.

If my love for their mother can be considered a near self-destructive love, then the love I have for my children is something even more dangerous. The age-old cliche of the obsessive parent was one that I may have appreciated but never truly believed (in spite of all evidence to the contrary), until I myself was a parent. I and Moralis would have done anything for our children and there was always a little resentment between the two of us at how readily their affections would veer from one parent to the other. It sounds ridiculous, but that is the truth of it. They were growing, after the initial shock of their conception and births, into the most delightful creatures we had ever known.

It is strange what hormones can do to you.

Vida was one of those unfortunate (or fortunate) creatures who had the worst of it during her early teens. I suppose out of all of my children, she appreciated having a Potions Master for a father the most. It was not uncommon for me to be deluged with the most emotional letters, all containing pleas for some extra-strong acne removal cream to be made on her behalf (to which I obliged: terrible acne seems to run in our family) or a fat removing elixir (to which I did not oblige). She would also frequently write to me on the topic of magic, more so than either of her brothers, which explains her extraordinary talent for it, a talent that frightens even me at times.

Although it is Francis who is the most like me, the twins have particular mannerisms and characteristics similar to mine in regards to very different things. With Vida, it is more in terms of interests: she was always fascinated by Potions and Transfiguration (her two specialities, funnily enough) whilst Cronan is more like me when it comes to his frequent outbursts and angry moods. We have never got on quite as well as I have with his siblings, so it just goes to show. He is much more the usual sort of impressionable young man you will find on the street, having no real interest in his studies (although he has a rather interesting band project going on), a little too much in his appearance and comic books. The latter isn't so bad, because he is a talented cartoonist. When the mood takes him at any rate.

Both the twins have a rather worrying talent for forgery, maybe from the abundance of spies in the family. Vida used to frequently delight Dumbledore with her letters asking for tips on more advanced magic (sent by a humble Ermyntrude Glow) and Cronan, despite his lack of interest in his studies, always managed to come home each year with the most outstanding reports. Even though Moralis and I knew what was going on, it was hard to pin it down on him: both the twins had an inborn aptitude for Occlumency, unlike Francis who is pretty much an open book.

At present, all three of my children are in University: Francis is in his final year of studying the Classics and Philosophy, whilst Vida and Cronan are undergraduates, studying History and English Literature between them. Vida, after the troublesome years of her youth, has now emerged as a rather pretty thing who bears an uncanny resemblance to her dead grandmother, and Cronan as the sort of boy I'd have hated were we in school together: vaguely good-looking and nonchalant, lazy and charming.

None of my children went to any magic school and instead received all their training from my great great grandfather and the Elders of the family. Because every single magical child is registered with a quill that cannot be influenced by magic in any way, the danger in sending my children to any public magical school is obvious. As it is, I believe that they are all registered on that magic list under their mother's name, as I was during my childhood.

What else? There are so many things to recall that I'm not sure when to begin. Francis' eighteenth birthday - when the twins staged an abortive re enactment of some famous episode from classical antiquity (I think it was the murder of Julius Caesar)? Or my visiting them during the summer holidays from that miserable hovel in Spinner's End to find no one in the house, but the four of them trekking from the local park an hour later, all absolutely sodden (Cronan, thinking he had seen a water snake had upturned the boat with his siblings and mother still in it)? Recalling such events is like something from a dream. It seems to me that I am the closest any man can come to an acceptable schizophrenic: Severus Snape as a teacher must have been quite different from Severus Snape the father and husband. I don't know. But what is for sure is that it explains all too much about my state of mind, this my double existence. Was I really that successful in cutting off both parts of my life from one another? If so, did I ever fully participate in either one? I truly don't know.

Ah, night has come: the sea is getting rough, I can tell from the louder roaring sounds echoing through some two feet of mortar and brick into my cell. It is now time for me to sleep.

The ninth day of my solitary confinement and the orders have been lifted. I am very grateful for this because I ran out of paper three days ago. Some more was brought to me by Octavius, funnily enough, who acted as if it were a top secret mission he had to carry out.

Sirius' escape from Azkaban and the appearance of Remus Lupin at Hogwarts was like something from a nightmare for me. By that time I had spent just over a decade in a relatively comfortable job with very little of my past left to confront me: I was a cleared Death Eater, in a respected position at the school and pretty well established and content. Sirius escaping was bad enough because it suddenly alerted me to the fact that I had lulled myself into a false sense of security: the return of the Dark Lord was no longer a possible chance, but suddenly became something close to palpable fact - Sirius had managed to escape. The Dark Lord would manage to return. My worst fears were indeed being realised.

However, Remus Lupin's own return eventually became a huge annoyance. It seemed that just as I'd had to cover up for him whilst we were in school, so I was to do similar once again, what with having to make his Wolfsbane potion each month. As it happened, I didn't do too well this time around when it came to keeping his secret, but I'd had an entire school year to put up with him after all.

I never thought I could be so vindictive, so I suppose it is the shock of recognition that hits one hardest: for example, Harry Potter was, in truth, only a minor, petty inconvenience. Yet I responded to his mere presence as if he were so much more than that. Something certainly irked me about him, but it was never as bad to warrant the insane anger that I felt bubbling through my veins each time I saw him or heard his name being mentioned. It was much the same with Remus Lupin. Merely being around him, observing how well he got on with the junior Marauders (Potter and his second and third bananas) was almost as bad as being in school again, in fact worse, because there was no actual harm in it and it was just me feeling humiliated. Ye gods, how I loathe my temper.

It's easy enough to say with hindsight, I suppose.

But I was most furious with Dumbledore for his continual and insistent dismissal of anything I might have had to say or feel. Perhaps it was mere jealousy, an unfounded grudge. Ah, well: who would have thought? It must have had more of an effect on me than I would have liked, particularly when coupled with the permanent irritation that was the presence of Harry Potter.

Since my solitary confinement was lifted, I have seen nothing of Mr. Anumis. I have a dim awareness that I ought to be somewhat worried, but for some reason I can't bring myself to feel anything about it.

It is strange: since the fall of the Dark Lord, life has been oddly colourless. I'd always imagined that life in Azkaban, without the Dementors, would be naught but a constant struggle against legalised tortures and grim figures predominating over every aspect of my life... a strange sort of raport being built up between us few prisoners that were. At this stage of my life, it is embarrassing to admit that I still have something of a romantic in me.

How wrong I was.

In a sense, though the logical part of my brain screams out the opposite, I find myself wishing that my militant opponents in the wizarding world would indeed get their own way and hold me on trial, if only to allow me a break from the monotony of prison life. Even getting my soul sucked out would be preferable to this grey existence. They certainly knew what they were doing when they sentenced me here: they are planning to bore me to death.

Someone then knocked on my door. I suspected it to be Mr. Khan because whoever it was paused for me to speak.

"Hello there, Severus," he spoke in an obscenely cheery voice. "How was solitary confinement?"

"I have certainly learned my lesson," I replied slowly. "I very nearly ran out of paper."

He laughed at that and I can tell he assumes I am making a joke. He is as clueless as my other two guards as to what I actually do with my supply of paper.

"Well, that's something. Else there'd be no point now, eh?" He added lightly. I allowed my lips to twitch. "I've brought you your post, by the by, and the last two Daily Prophets. Some interesting stuff - they're thinking of abolishing the House system at Hogwarts."

I feel an instant pang of regret. It certainly seems a shame to get rid of that tradition, but again, it is probably for the best. It reminds me of how much I have really left behind and how far I have come. All those years ago when I was a student and even a teacher there, seem like so many years ago, another lifetime. I look at Mr. Khan's face, relatively cheerful and bright and wonder what really goes on beneath that patient, pleasant exterior. He wouldn't really be able to understand: he is only a Squib after all, left on the fringes of wizarding society his entire life. Such turmoil within the culture that had excluded him would no doubt be greeted with something akin to jubilation. But perhaps I ought not to judge by my own standards.

"Interesting, eh?"

"Yes."

He nodded absently.

"Went through your post: regulations, see. You'll like some of the letters - very funny. You don't mind me asking who Ms Glow is by any chance? Wife of yours?"

I turned to look at him blankly. I hope he leaves soon because it would do me no good to laugh aloud in his presence.

He shrugged, vaguely amused. "Have it your way--"

"No. I don't have a wife." Childishly, I narrowly avoid the temptation of crossing my fingers as I say this. You would have thought, after all these years, I would be used to telling lies.

Now it's his turn to look at me blankly. "I thought Francis-- ah, well... shouldn't judge, though, should I?"

"True." I clench my jaw.

There was an awkward pause. "Well," he started first. "I'll leave you to it, shall I?"

"Thank you."

To Mr. SP Snape,

I had tried getting into contact with you for some time now but I soon discovered that you were not allowed any mail. All the previous letters I sent to you were sent back, which is a shame, because you would have found them very enlightening. At least they weren't opened. I would know because I checked the seal.

Very little has happened since you left. Cronan has been a bit difficult to get on with and made Morry quite upset a few days ago. I do love him but he can be such a pain and I sometimes think that Morry is a little frightened of him, but then, she's been quite low for a long time now: Fran is the only one who can really control him - it makes me wish that you were still here. You can tell that Cronan resents this, and I'm just waiting until he explodes. Literally, possibly.

Fran tells me that they heard some news of you about two weeks ago. They tell me that apparently you are well, and as happy as one can be, given the circumstances.

It's very stupid. When I realised that you were allowed no mail, I was very sad because there was so much that I wanted to tell you about. But now that I am writing this, nothing seems to be able to come out of my head. I really don't know what I should say to you other than that everyone is fine and the tortoises (if you'd believe it) actually seem to be missing you: when I tried to feed them dandelion leaves (which they usually love) they wouldn't look at them. It took me and Morry ages to realise that you'd always been the one to give them that sort of thing. They'll eat ordinary greens and such, mind you, but choice delicacies such as dandelion leaves... no. It's actually quite funny. They only seem to like Fran now.

I have started school now and so I won't have as much time on my hands to visit you. I wish I could.

Even though I have told you about Cronan, you won't get involved, will you? I think he'll just get angrier.

Yours,

Ms E. Glow.

PS I tried to track down some of your students. You wouldn't believe what they're doing now to earn some filthy lucre (!).

The Daily Prophet proves to be a very useful read. Not only do they devote several pages to debates between the most respected contemporary wizards on the topic of the House system being abolished within Hogwarts, but I also later find an article in which the writer (Stebbins, he calls himself) attacks the Ministry on their past failures which had come to light in some important documents that had been leaked out since the end of the war.

This is fascinating stuff. I would normally be very dismissive of such a journalist (it's very easy to attack a wounded soldier, after all), but something in me says that this could well be the beginning of something very different. The more recent Daily Prophet has a letters section that goes on for several pages because of the outrage but also the lack of surprise of the wizarding populace who read the article. It is probably a very good thing that Potter died with the Dark Lord: I wonder what he would have made of all this.

The letters are wide-ranging: some directly attacking the Ministry for it's failure to properly protect and inform the wizarding world: failure at International Co-operation: an overt willingness to let the pure blooded families get away (and quite literally at times) with murder. Immaturity, naivety... a downright unwillingness to acknowledge any other than their straight and narrow. Even the oldest accepted norms come under fire - several letters propose the dissolution of the Secrecy Act altogether. I am almost impressed. Almost, because one suspects the majority of the writers to be crackpots and loons, or idealistic youth. But for the most part, it is as if the entire wizarding world had woken up and spoken as one. I myself have only ever seen such a united front since the smear campaign on Cornelius Fudge.

Dumbledore would certainly be pleased by all this. It would have been worth seeing his reaction were he still Head of Hogwarts and I it's Potions Master.

It would be nice if there were something to what those mysterious wizards who work in the Department of Mysteries say and the veil really were some barrier to another life. I wouldn't mind bumping into half of the people I have met and befriended, or hated - even killed. Some of them, like Dumbledore and my muggle grandparents, represent that time of my life when I was actually secure in my hopes and dreams and ideas. Others, the Marauders, Lily Potter, my old Slytherins, my colleagues and my fellow Death Eaters, a time when things were so damn easy: when everything was black and white and it was safe to ignore any grey.

But I don't know. I remember something from one of my memories: my father discussing such things with my mother (I was sitting on the window sill, reading), and I listening. He had just spoken to my great great grandfather, I think, because he was talking about the old philosophers of ancient times.

"They believed in ghosts and such things as well you know," he was saying. "We just have a different name for them - Memory, the _subconscious... _things that are equally as terrifying, equally as powerful as the mere ghosts of our stories if not more so-" (my father didn't believe in ghosts in the least, despite or maybe because of his experiences in the wizarding world) "- don't you think?"

My mother said something - a disagreement probably - to this and he laughed.

"The dead speak to us in dreams because that's the only way they can be heard... what we see is a projection... like light coming out of a dead star..." He sighed and sat back theatrically. "And I say dreams because who sees what is real? I look at you and see my beautiful wife... your parents look at you and see a troubled adolescent girl and as for Francis here..." he looked at me. I pretended to keep on reading. He laughed again and that is all I can remember.

Dear Father,

I know I only saw you last week, but a lot can change in that amount of time. How are you? How are your guards? Thank Mr. Khan for me, please: he was very helpful in regards to us sending you letters. It is a lot more complicated than one would think. But perhaps it is because of the weather that any owls would have to endure on their journey. The North Sea is not known for it's temperate waves and such of the like.

Everyone is fine at home. Even though it has been a long time, still no one speaks about you. Even great great great grandfather avoids asking about you even though I can tell he wants to because he saw me writing this letter. They all pretend that you're dead, which, in a way, you are. Is it not so that our true death comes when we are no longer remembered? It's quite sad because I had no idea how much they'd all admired you until now, though I guess you must have done. They all think that it was little short of amazing that you'd managed to recover so quickly after that attack and that you managed to keep to your studies. I think they're disappointed because it turns out you had an ulterior motive, and you know how much the Elders hate being wrong.

Have you heard from Ms Glow yet? She tells me that Cronan is being very difficult again and that he keeps on making Morry upset. I shouldn't really tell you this because I suspect it would hurt your feelings, but I think you ought to know. I don't think he's being so unbearable, myself. I suspect it's just that Morry is going through a rather rough time. We have recently been visited by some old phoenixes and we may have to move. Morry is considering moving us abroad and worst luck is that she has great great great grandfather's approval. I suppose I'd be able to stay in the country, as I am still in school, but my goodness, it's a horrible thought that we shall all be split up. I will keep you informed.

Ms Glow has met young Malfoy. She says that one of your students is a teacher and that the current Potions Master is a Communist. I keep on trying to tell her that she doesn't even know the meaning of the word. Perhaps she means Machiavellian: she probably does (that was a joke by the way. I'm sure you knew that but it's just so that the guards can appreciate it. They would have read this before you do and might not get it).

Anyway. I graduate on the of . You'll be thinking of me, won't you?

Yours affectionately,

Francis.

Killing Dumbledore was a necessity, I can see that clearly now. Had I opted to die, rather than murder him, I would have left Draco in his care, which, from my experience, isn't really care at all. The truth is that it all came down to trust and I did not trust Albus Dumbledore. He was getting old and proved resilient to whatever healing measure I or Madam Pomfrey placed on him. He would have been unable to make the most of my death. He was unable to make the most of many things.

But it was a pity and certainly not an experience I would care to repeat. I did basically have a liking for the old man and I had some degree of respect for him, I can admit that at least. He had employed me, after all, protected my reputation at expense of his own as well as that of others. He rarely sought out my opinion but gave me considerable freedom as a teacher. He was also, as I have said before, living history. It was difficult to be in his presence and not to be moved to loyalty even on a small, practically insignificant level. I suppose that is why the Dark Lord himself always seemed strangely reluctant to dispatch of the old man. I doubt he could envision a world without Albus Dumbledore. Certainly, when I and Draco returned from the cave that night, he seemed more stunned than jubilant to hear that Dumbledore was dead. He didn't even look at me for several weeks afterward and even after that, up until his death, he was oddly quiet and watchful around me, more so than usual.

Loyalty is a beautiful thing and beauty is terror. The Dark Lord was in so many ways, still a child who wanted to prove himself to some grudging parent-figure, boosting his own ego with pathetic illusions: always disturbed and clueless when confronted with the real thing, be it love or beauty or terror.

And yet we were all drawn to him. The first Death Eaters, the older ones and then those of my generation. He had the same sort of charisma as Dumbledore had. Even though I can now see and probably saw it even back then, that Lord Voldemort cared for nothing and no-one, not even for himself, he was able to make us think that he did. He would ask about our feelings, and our families... what it was that we wanted... he would make you transform your sense of inferiority into one of superiority. Even after his resurrection, when he transformed into an understandably bitter and desperate Dark Lord, he was still able to make us feel needed, wanted, in spite of the glaringly obvious evidence to contradict that assumption. After all, he would regularly torture us if we failed to obey his commands; he did not forget and he did not forgive. He was cruel and uncaring and cold. But we loved him.

That was why we were so vicious and cruel when it came to those ardent supporters of Dumbledore: we were those unfortunates who had been touched by the Lord of the Phoenix (ha ha) as well. We knew deep down in our hearts that our precious Dark Lord was no match for Dumbledore and was himself affected by that fount of wisdom, swayed by the magnetism of the kindly Headmaster of Hogwarts. Some, like Regulus and to a certain extent myself, would find ourselves broken by the two conflicting forces in our lives, others would seek to turn their backs on one to try and serve the other.

That is why the battle against the Dark Arts is so hopeless. In an attempt to defeat it, the wizards of light try to ignore it altogether, instead of appreciating it for what it is. Such attitudes breed extremism on both sides, and the oppressed devotees of the Dark Arts will once again attempt to rise up and inflict chaos and pain on the wizarding world. Neither side has got it right: even I can say that the Dark Arts are by nature cruel and a method of releasing the blackest of human nature. To completely absorb oneself in it... one becomes less than an animal. But to ignore it completely seems childish and ignorant. Magic becomes something separate and scientific rather than intertwined with our very own natures, as it really is.

It is difficult to convey the sense of relief I feel in having written that. It's as if that is all I have wanted to say for a long time.


	5. Chapter 5

_'It's mercy, compassion and forgiveness that I lack...' -_ The Bride, Kill Bill Vol. I

Chapter Five

Mr. Anumis finally visited me, the first time since sentencing me to solitary confinement. He was gloating.

"Shall I give you the likely dates of your trial or would you prefer to wait until the dates have been released?" He asked.

After the writing session, I was nearly delirious, feeling so relieved. "Wait, please."

He looks surprised. Satisfied, I stood up to greet him and the silence reigns for several minutes. "In that case," he said slowly. "You have a guest awaiting you."

I don't believe him. It is Mr. Khan who makes such announcements and it takes all three of them to escort me to the visiting room. But I am a prisoner here and have very little choice in whether I should come or go. So I followed him.

He led me down the hallway and took a turning to the right, which he has never done before. I would feel frightened but what Francis had written is quite true. I am a dead man already, and as the Ghanaians say, 'a dead goat fears no machete.' If anything, I felt some regret that I had not finished the writing, but no matter. What I have done is probably enough. Probably, for someone like Francis.

I am courteously led into a room. It was quite dark, and also quite large, bigger than my cell at any rate. Quite suddenly, I was felled to the floor.

Before the pain could register, I felt another boot make contact with my abdomen. It is a good thing, I thought dreamily to myself, that I hadn't eaten for a day or so beforehand.

It takes another blow, and I fall unconscious.

Dear Father,

You would be very pleased to hear that I managed to successfully beat down one of my lecturers on his view of Aristotle's Book Zeta. I know I shouldn't, but I feel very proud of myself. It just goes to show that all that work was worth something after all: if you remember, none of the Elders approved of me concentrating on the Classics and Philosophy, but this should count for something. The lecturer was very impressed with me.

The last I heard, Ms Glow is enjoying herself and so is Cronan. Plans for moving away seem to be put on hold for the moment. We have had no more visits from old phoenixes.

That is really all that I wanted to say.

Yours affectionately,

Francis.

When I come to, I am lying in a pool of my own blood. The pain is indescribable. It feels as if I've been stretched on racks and then pummelled for all I was worth, which I suppose I was. I can feel that several bones are broken and my body is exhausted.

"Up you get," says a gentle voice. It is Mr. Khan.

I hear someone else swear and whoever it is steps around to my other side and gingerly lifts up the other arm. Pain shoots through me. I feel as though I have been set on fire, then doused in ice cold water. Either my eyes aren't open or I am still drifting into consciousness because I cannot see a thing. I recognise the voice as Octavius McGill's. "Damn," he says. "What was he trying to do... kill him?"

"Probably. No chance of a trial appearance that way," Mr. Khan says grimly. They lead me along a corridor for a bit before entering another room which is so light that it makes my eyes sting. I didn't know that any rooms were like this in Azkaban prison. It is almost pleasant. "Damn it, I said to him, the man's a criminal, _I _know that, but one of us has got to do the right thing and is this how we show our moral superiority, eh? But he's just wanted a go at him since he got here..."

I am laid gently onto a bed and my limbs rearranged carefully. Someone hisses in despair.

"What do you mean?"

"Well... this Snape... if that's his name... wasn't no ordinary Death Eater. Some sort of spy for the Ministry an' all that. You think he's just some twisted murderer, an' for all I know he might be, but he certainly hides it well if that's true... he's the only reason we haven't got more of his sort to deal with..."

"His sort?"

"Death Eaters. Scum the lot of them. This Snape's the best of them by a long way but even so... there's not really much difference between them. He'd probably have done just as much as they did if he was ordered to by that You-Know-Who..."

I feel my flesh knit itself back together and the wet blood disappears.

"So he just hates him because he's a Death Eater?"

"No. _I _hate him because he's a Death Eater, for all he's a good sport. Always polite and interested in what I say. With Anumis it isn't anything like that... I think it's something to do with family... Bad blood an' all that... It's why he hates that Francis so much. Don't you hear them argue every time he comes here?"

Octavius swears again. "It's always something like that isn't it?"

"Yes. Stupid isn' it? Especially considering what a good kid that Francis is... don't think he'll be anything like his father..."

The older wounds are being cleaned and bandages applied. A pleasant smell tells me that some salve is being placed on my face. A quick tap of a wand and I wince as cartilage and bone grind about my nasal cavity. "Oh good, he's coming to," Mr. Khan says, actually pleased. "Mr. Snape? Well, I don't suppose you can talk back can you? I could take some advantage of this, you know," he seems to be smiling and both he and Octavius chuckle. I try to smile. What an insane place this is, I think to myself, where one can laugh after being beaten half to death. "Well, anyway. We're just taking care of your bones and cuts an' all that. I don't know what you're like internally, but it can't pretty, so it'll hurt a great deal, mind. But don't worry; you'll live."

"Thank you..." I try to say but they just chuckle again.

"Now there's no need to be like that..." Mr. Khan replies, laughter in his voice.

I don't know how long I am in the infirmary. Due to the injuries I suffered on my head, my two wards have discovered the four metal plates (another had been added as I grew and my skull enlarged) and were amusingly mystified. McGill nearly thought me to be proof of what strange experiments those muggle wizards - the dreaded scientists - had been up to. He is one to give Luna Lovegood a run for her money, he really is.

Mr. Khan is a very able nurse and Healer, I quickly discover, for all that he is a Squib, whilst Octavius proves to be better read than I thought he would be. It turns out that he excelled in Defence Against the Dark Arts ("but then I had a very unorthodox teacher," he explained. "my parents didn't want me to go to Hogwarts, they thought Dumbledore was too soft a touch on people like the Malfoys, Durmstrang wouldn't accept me - not pure-blooded enough, I think - and I didn't like the uniforms they wear in Beauxbatons so my great uncles and aunts had to teach me. Great-Uncle Alastor was especially rigourous-"

"_Uncle _Alastor?" Mr. Khan jerked theatrically and even I found it difficult to contain my surprise.

"Y-yes," Octavius stuttered and blushed. "Mad-Eye to his friends..."

Mr. Khan swore and reapplied my bandages, whistling in amazement).

None of them speak of Mr. Anumis in my presence and I only occasionally hear him passing the infirmary. They have given me a proper journal to write in now, rather than mere sheets of paper. After a few days of this and I am deemed fit enough to be returned to my cell. I had forgotten how cold the place was. Compared to the comfortable infirmary, it was like stepping out into the Arctic. When it was evident that what healing I had acquired was rapidly diminishing the longer I was kept in my cell (I developed tuberculosis at one point, a novel experience, if I say so myself) they consented to allow the minimum amount of fuel for me to burn and use to heat myself. It was barely a luxury, but it made a great difference. Although I am still cold, I am unlikely to die because of it.

How different my present circumstances are from the time when I would be freely welcomed in the Malfoy Manor and sit in comfortable chairs by a huge fire, drinking dark wine or port, eating savoury treats. I suppose if you believe in Karma, then I am a prime example of one fully repaying his debt.

My friendship with Lucius Malfoy was a relatively new one when I compare it to how I knew his famous cohorts for: I only really got to know him when he was in his final year in Hogwarts, and I in my third. I was never a very attractive child and many in my House stayed away from me as if they thought it was catching. Or maybe it was just the fact that I had a permanent scowl on my face. No matter, it was when I had left school and joined the Death Eaters that a friendship of sorts began to develop between us.

It was I who held back Lucius' hair when he vomited, the very first time he had tortured and killed someone. He had threatened me with death if I told anyone, but I gave him such a look that we both dissolved into grudging laughter and after that, our respect for one another grew. I have always known that it was him who saved me from death at the hands of an irate Dark Lord, though I feel I ought to say that I did much of the same for him. I tried to look after Draco (I am under no illusion as to whether I succeeded - as I have admitted, I was distracted from my sworn duty for the greater part of Draco's school career, which no doubt led to the disastrous happenings that took place as a consequence) and I like to believe that if Lucius knew of my own family, he would have done his best to protect them as well. Though I doubt that, somehow. But like I said, people are full of surprises, and it is something that I would like to believe.

There wasn't really much that we held back from one another. Of course he got to know of my general ancestry quite early on - even I wasn't that skilful as to hide it from him completely - but nevertheless stuck by me, even when I thought he would not. Of course I got to know of his family's dirty washing, so to speak, a privilege open to few. I knew of his own weaknesses, his penchant for wine and women as well as his brutal sadism.

I knew of his guilt that the fault for Draco not having had any siblings was his own, rather than Narcissa's as he liked to have it believed. The man was a wreck, but a true stoic. He bore with it and did his best, which I admired him for, although (now that I think about it) he had to considering how frequently he indulged himself in his carnal desires.

Most importantly, I knew of his love for his wife, of all things, the equally arrogant and desperate Narcissa Lestrange. Most people would think it strange: I know I certainly did, in spite of the equally deep affection I felt for my own partner at that time. But they did love each other, which might make up for the lack of affection he showed to Draco. It's ironic, but I think in trying to strengthen his son and have him grow into an adult with none of his father's vices, Lucius permanently weakened Draco. The boy grew up to be a spoilt brat with a tendency to extreme feelings at the worst of times. One minute he would be sobbing uncontrollably, the next childishly happy over some 'misfortune' he had inflicted on Potter, for instance. However, I must bear some of the fault as I did not help in the slightest: I succeeded in getting him very nearly killed after we took flight from Hogwarts, so there you are.

I was very sorry to hear that Lucius had died. I can only imagine what it must have been like, estranged on some island in the North Sea, away from family and friend alike, forbidden communication, only to be strangled in your prison cell...

Horrible. But what goes around comes around. I am beginning to consider myself lucky that I have survived long enough to write this. A half-blessing of the lowest grade, true, but a blessing nonetheless.

It is now midday. It can actually get quite warm here during the summer, and when the weather is fine this is usually my favourite time of day. But it is cloudy, dull and bitterly cold. I have been given a new coat to wear over my robes: it's very thick and manages to keep me warm to a greater extent. It doesn't help with all these memories that I have been bringing up again. I feel very old, tired and useless.

Were I any other man, I would feel regret, but I don't have time for that. I was no fool to begin with and am certainly less of one now. I knew what I was getting myself in for. What I didn't anticipate, and this could be said of anyone and everyone, was life itself. It's supposed to be lived but to live is barely a life. One is simply an automaton, whether you behave according to instinct, reason or faith. You can only take pleasure in the small things. The silly things; your child throwing their arms open to you, your lovers' glance (of derision, judgement, love or desire it matters not. It's the simply joy of it existing that thrills us). A ridiculous joke, meaningless debates... anything bigger than that, well, is just too hurtful to contemplate.

I am taken out for exercising and I am surprised to see Muggle ships in the distance. "Well, Mr. Anumis," I call over my shoulder, smiling at him, "would you look at that?"

Octavian and Mr Khan are apprehensive. Neither I nor Mr. Anumis has acknowledged one another since I was deemed fit enough to be exercised as usual. But I want to surprise them. I am a prisoner, he is a guard. This is the only way things could be.

Mr. Anumis steps forward gravely and stops by my side to look out at the ships, his eyes sharp. "For the Baltics," he said. "Headed for the Baltics. Maybe from Russia. Stopped at Finland probably... hm. Just imagine, Mr Snape: all the smoked herring you could eat." He smiles sardonically. "Very interesting." He walks back to his previous spot to keep guard. Very interesting, I think. You are absolutely right, Mr. Anumis.

Over the next few weeks, I further recover. I am visited by Francis twice. He is still giddy with excitement at the though of having just graduated. He intends to stay on and get a PhD.

"Think of me, won't you?" He asks, suddenly becoming my five year old son again. I am so touched that I don't know what to say. His eyes begged me for the reassurance that I knew I couldn't give him, but I answered his question - "Of course, Fran," - as the truth would bid me and kissed him on the forehead. Damn, I thought to myself. He has grown up. He's an adult. It hurt so much, I wondered if I wasn't having a heart attack of some sort.

But today is different.

"Make yourself presentable, sir, really," Mr. Khan says in mock exasperation. "You wear that coat all the time - just get some nice robes on or something." He then spits out something in Spanish or Italian, I can't tell which. "And please get on with it, Mr. Snape: your guest won't wait for ever, you know."

This makes me suspicious. It can't be Francis, otherwise he would not be making such a fuss.

I am led into a small, well lit and well furnished room, clearly intended for private use only. The person at the other end of the table looks up and nearly screams and I can't help from taking a step backwards myself.

It's Vida.

"Ms Glow," Mr Khan says politely. "He's all yours."

He shuts the door. For a moment I suspect a trap, but looking around me, I realise that the room is kept alight by magical means. There's not a window to be seen, and the only possible exit is the very door through which we entered.

"Oh..." I say.

She flings her arms around my neck and kisses my cheeks repeatedly. "You're actually alive - I didn't believe Fran: I thought he was lying to get us to stop worrying. He looked so sad when he came back to us last time." She kisses me again. "Oh, my Daddy!" She squeals into my chest. "It's my Daddy!" Finally, Vida lets me go and I, stunned, look at her properly. I am half-convinced that she's some trick to get me to confess to some unsolved crime, but I realise that no, it is my daughter.

"Vida..."

"Sh! Just be quiet! Don't say a word!" I look at her, startled, but she's too busy searching my face as well, to make sure - doubly sure - that I am the real thing. "You are a fool, do you know that? If only you'd come to us... or Great great grandfather... or great grandfather... any of us. But no, you had to go solo. Oh, my Daddy, you fool! We miss you!" She doesn't move much as she says this, only her eyes. "Are you happy?"

"No."

"I thought not." Her speech is sharp and harsh, but I know that is not how she intends it. It's just the way she speaks when she is excited. "Look at you!" She says. "You've gone grey!"

That was one thing I had not considered. I had grown accustomed to the growing amounts of grey in my hair as I had to look at myself every morning to shave and wash. Even Francis, who visits me periodically has got used to it, but to my daughter who had last seen me with shoulder length black hair, I am a very different person now.

She touches a lock of pure white hair, where my skull was split thanks to Mr. Anumis' attack. I wince slightly, instinctively. "Damn, what have they done to you?"

"Nothing, dearest."

"Oh, be quiet!" Then she kisses me on the cheek again. "You'll never be freed, you know."

"I know."

She looks surprised. "You knew? But when we last spoke, you made it sound..."

"I didn't want to state the obvious."

We look at each other again. She is an adult as well, now. She wears her long hair in a bun and is now only a little bit shorter than me. She has my nose for sure, but I think it suits her. She and Cronan take after their mother in build so although slim and moderately tall, they are not the rake thin sticks that my mother and I were, nor are they giants like Francis and my father. Her darker skin shines and I can see she's lined her eyes with kohl or something similar. She really has grown up. For the first time in a very long while, I feel regret.

"So, Ms Ermyntrude Glow," I begin, meandering over to the chairs. "How are you?"

She pauses. "I'm fine. I'm starting where you finished, Daddy. I've decided to go into research when I'm done with University. Magical research." We sit down and push our chairs nearer together. I am surprised by her lack of inhibitions.

As if reading my mind, she says "Don't worry, they can't hear us. The walls are too thick, not to mention that beast of a door... and I put a silencing charm on it when it closed. It was difficult because this place has so much magic of it's own, but you would be surprised what one can do with a little bit of hope and lot of imagination," she pauses and looks at me gravely. "Or at least, that's what Albus Dumbledore always used to tell me." She swiftly shakes her head at the look on my face (it seems I have lost what skill I had in keeping my face perfectly smooth and devoid of emotion) and carries on. "Well, let's not go into that. We're all fine, really. Well no, we're not, but it's not as if we can't handle it..." she smiles sweetly at me, without a trace of irony.

"What do you mean?" I ask, even though the answer is perfectly obvious.

She raises an eyebrow in a parody of myself trying to eke out some sort of explanation from her in her younger days after she had committed some devious act. "Well, Cronan certainly hates you now, for one thing. He doesn't say it but he does. I think in a way he always has. But now you're not around it's even worse, because now he's got an excuse to hate you." She sighs wearily. "He had a huge argument with Mummy the other day. She was getting really upset because she was thinking, well saying, how nice it would be to see you again and then he just... exploded at her," Vida shakes her head. "I've never seen anything like it. Worse, Mummy started shouting back at him. Usually she just cries, but this time, she'd had enough. Then Fran got involved and it was over, thank goodness."

I am about to say something but then she suddenly interrupts me with "do you think I should cut my hair off?"

"What - all of it?" I ask stupidly.

"No, most of it."

"Certainly not," I snap, pained. She had always had beautiful hair. I can remember many a night having to help her wash and comb it when Moralis was too fed up with her to do it. I had always been foolishly proud of the fact that my only daughter had had such lovely hair, even when her acne had become so terrible, she'd refuse to go to school.Then I pull myself together. "But then, I'm biased aren't I? As your father, after all..."

Her eyes crinkle, which is a sign she is about to cry or wants to anyway. I haven't seen her actually cry since she was seven. "I'm jesting, dearest," I add hurriedly. "Do whatever you want." I don't mean that, of course, and she knows it. "I have no right to..."

"Oh shut up. Of course I won't," she says, smiling a very watery smile. "I wish I'd never asked now..." she mumbles ironically.

There is a knock at the door. "Ten minutes, Mr. Snape." Mr. Khan as always.

I sigh and look at my Vida again. "How is your mother, really?" I ask finally.

"She's coping. She's very strong you know. I mean, she cries a lot but it's not the way a normal person would: it doesn't mean she's on the edge or anything like that. It just means she's crying." I snort, half-amused, half-depressed. Vida smiles one-sidedly. "I know it sounds strange but I can't really describe it any other way. She misses you a great deal, you know. She really does. Can barely talk about you, but then again, that's the way everyone wants it. No one wants to think about you or talk about you, except for great grandfather. He always talks to me about you. He's so desperate to talk to someone and you know how quiet and reserved he usually is. He just blossoms when he gets started: he has so many memories..." Although her eyes are on my face, I can tell she isn't really seeing. She's drifted off into her own world. "You sound as if you were a darling when you were younger."

I snap out of the hazy cloud of depression that had began to set over me. "A darling?" I say slowly.

"Yes. He always said you kept trying to run away and hide all the time." Vida grins evilly at me and I feel my cheeks redden. I have no recollection of that, but as she mentions it, a grainy image of the attic and me hiding under the dust cover of a table... a feeling that it was vital I be quiet and not move an inch... the sensation goes as quick as it had come. "He says you preferred your Muggle grandparents to anyone else, and it had been a disgrace that you weren't allowed to see your grandmother when she was dying," she goes on. Then Vida pauses and looks at me carefully. "Daddy," she says abruptly, "what _were_ our grandparents like? Not even great grandfather talks about them and no one even acts like they existed. It's just one big blank."

When she was younger, Vida had found some old photographs. They were Muggle ones that had been taken by my father of my mother and I. Vida had commented on her pretty grandmother (any woman who did not look like her was considered to be pretty but my mother was no beauty for sure) and (in the few group pictures) her rather handsome grandfather. When she saw me (at a week old, eight months, eighteen months, two years... six years...) she would suddenly fall silent, as if she couldn't put two and two together. She had asked a similar question then.

I speak bluntly: "I don't remember, dearest. And that's the honest truth. I don't remember anything from before the attack."

For most of the time, I try not to think about Moralis. It's much too painful. But when I am returned to my cell, I steel myself and dare my mind to wander.

She was always a rational person, and had the typical ancient mind that I had grown to admire, the mind with that rigid and unrelenting sense of purpose. We speak of Logic in this day and age but we don't mean it. The Logic we talk about depends on our own individual understanding, and our use of wording itself, so that throws the mere concept of Logic out of the window. Moralis was very different because she understood this, from a considerably early age. It is a revelation that has come to me after two years of solitude and near-madness, but it was a fact of life that Moralis had always appreciated. It was why she was so attracted to people like the Ancient Greeks and Romans, the Greeks in particular. They understood the need for the irrational, the joy of escaping _ego, _far more than we do, in an age where still we dismiss the old values and powers of belief and the inescapable presence of the irrational in the world around us. The sheer irrationality of the fact of existence, for example, which is of course the ultimate paradox. Ho, ho.

It is a cliche when a man says he loves a woman for her mind, but a cliche that I must concede may well be true. Hormones can only do so much, after all. And that was part of the attraction that Moralis held for me. She was a strong woman, as her daughter had admitted, and her perception of the world, different from anyone else's, caught me and left me in a trance. I felt as if I were constantly reaching out for her, but it was a thoroughly enjoyable pursuit. She was the strength that I needed and I had realised that from the moment I knew her. She helped me see that the things I had considered a part of life were in fact irrequisite. I did not have to marry her, I did not have to continue going to school, I did not have to stay with my family. I could do anything.

Perhaps it was because she herself was caught between two worlds. Her uncle and aunt who brought her up were the salt of the earth type, lower class Northern people, but she herself had one parent who she suspected was still alive somewhere in west Africa and another dead in a wrongly marked grave. It seemed oddly appropriate that a girl with no real root in this world should seek an affinity with a people long since dead. Whatever it was, I was completely enamoured with her.

Then there was the fact that we were much alike. We weren't - well, I wasn't, for one, but Moralis was considered exotic in '70s England, so she could get away with it - the most attractive of people. We were skinny, awkward, gauche. I walked like a penguin, and she a horse (as my great great grandfather put it, correctly I feel). She found the world confusing and exhausting, frustrating at best, and I was just plain disdainful of _hoi polloi_ altogether. When the so-called 'grunge' look became popular in the fashion world, (this must have been the early or mid- 90s) and it was (apparently, because I never saw them, being in Hogwarts, after all) heralded on the front cover of every Muggle newspaper, she sent me a long letter with details of how she'd celebrated and excerpts from the newspapers which arrived as a large bundle the next morning in the Great Hall. 'Ugly, skinny and gauche is now in, love. We are free at least,' she'd written. I hadn't been sure if she was joking or not. Needless to say, I could not exactly join in with her celebrating.

For all that she was a philosopher, she was very pragmatic. When first I fled with Draco from Hogwarts after killing Dumbledore, I foolishly went to her first. Although Draco never found out that she was my wife, I could tell that he was instantly calmed by her cool, brisk authority. He frequently asked me about her afterwards.

Moralis was never surprised. I always felt it was a good thing that someone knew what was going on around here.

During my last night outside of Azkaban, the night after my trial, I had had a dream about her coming to visit me. At least, at that time I had thought it a mere dream. I was so disorientated by the deaths of the Dark Lord and of Harry Potter, the private trial and interviews with the Ministry that much of what happened seemed like a dream. Not only that, but I hadn't reckoned that Moralis would be able to visit me, but as I think on it now, she must have been. And it seems she did.

I was lying on the bed, a rather comfortable one with a new mattress, looking up to the ceiling and trying to go to sleep when I heard the latch on the door click. Of course, I paid no attention to it, hoping that if it was a guard, I could feign sleep.

Then I saw her face, upside down, and felt her cool hands on the side of my face. She cradled my head and tipped it back towards her.

"Hello Severus," she said softly.

"Hello Moralis."

"How are you?"

"I'm fine, how are you?"

"I'm fine, too." Then she leaned forward and kissed me shortly on the lips. I could feel the mattress move just above my head where she sat down. "Well, as fine as I possibly can be."

"Well, that's good."

"Yes." She smiled slightly. "However, that doesn't mean I am _particularly_ fine... just fine enough..." Moralis chuckled and rolled her eyes. "Well, someone has certainly been a silly rabbit, haven't they?"

"Mm. Yes, I suppose."

She laughed again. "They're making out that you're worse than Lord Voldemort."

I frown slightly. Moralis - much like Dumbledore - always made a point of calling someone by their actual name, never by a nickname or anything like that. However, she never knew what the Dark Lord's real name was, though she had always had her doubts as to whether he had actually been born a Lord Voldemort, but it had to do. "In a way, that's true."

"In a way... in a way I could say that about everyone who had possibly existed."

"Well that's your job isn't it?"

"Ouch."

Because I thought her presence to be a dream, I realise that I must have said lots of things to her that I wouldn't normally have said. It all seems so melodramatic to me, but I can recall it distinctly (as I can recall most conversations I had with my wife). I suppose it just goes to show that even the best of us can loosen our tongues with so little prompting.

"How long do you think they will lock you away for?"

"The rest of my life."

"Oh dear," she whispered and lifted my head slightly, leaning it on her thigh. "Oh no..." It was so late by now that hardly any light was coming in through the window, and I couldn't make much of the room or even her facial features, near as they were to me. I felt her rest her cheek against mine. I raised my arm and stroked the curve of her spine and her waist. Despite her obvious grief, I was in too much of a trance to respond altogether appropriately to it. She had started crying but I felt a strange sense of peace and calm. Were I in the right state of mind, I would have been alarmed: my Moralis never cried, she made a point of it, but I couldn't understand in this dream of mine why she would be. A life of imprisonment was nearly incomprehensible, so what was there to worry or regret...?

She kissed me again. Eventually we made love.

"You're not really here, are you?" I said at one point, kissing her repeatedly on the neck. She had laughed.

"No, I suppose I'm not..."

Looking at her directly in the eyes, I should have seen the regret, the sadness and ultimately, the love that was there. Now I do, in painful hindsight, I just wish that I had appreciated it then and tried to comfort her.

She left a long while after that, after we had made love again and after the first rays of light had filtered through the windows. I could tell that she didn't want to, this vision of my wife that had come to visit me, but it was pointless to say anything about it. I had to make her go, and that I did by not saying good bye. I didn't even look at her, but at the light of the new day coming through the window.

I am lying here now on my bed and it is still early in the evening. And that is when it occurs to me that there is much more of my memories that I must confront and recall, but there is one in particular. And so I must write.

Write and keep.

History in the making.


	6. Chapter 6

_'But whether you believe or not has nothing to with anything. The Truth doesn't care what we think about it.'_ - Jakob Beer, The Fugitive Pieces.

Chapter Six

Despite what seemed to be the obvious evidence to prove the contrary, I still believed that there was a way of killing the Dark Lord. Why I kept on to this idea may have had something to do with the more obsessive aspect of my personality and the simple fact that revenge had been my main reason for living and that I was unable to shake it off or to even consider the thought that I might not wholly succeed. I had to, if only for the sake of my sanity.

But there had been a long pause, and a shift in interests since I had first began my killing spree, admittedly. I had been inactive for many years, taking up a post of residence at Hogwarts. I had kept my mind active though, my intuitions and magical abilities sharp and my general knowledge focused in the ongoing effort of keeping my family alive - I had had to keep abreast of the news: even the small pieces that would generally have been of no interest to anyone else were vitally important to me. Having a job under Dumbeldore's wing was incredibly useful in that regard; I had a good supply of reliable information and worthwhile opinions from him and my position endeared me more to my magical relatives who allowed me more freedom and hence gave me more rein to use their resources at my disposal (with the blessing of my great great grandfather of course, but as he was frequently advised by Dumbledore himself, we rarely came to blows over such things).

Once I had killed Dumbledore, all that came to an end. I was dead to my family, public enemy number two. I had the Order of the Phoenix and the Chosen One on my heels, not to mention a newly intimidated Dark Lord and reserved colleagues amongst the Death Eaters, all too desperate to avoid punishment or some such for themselves to offer much in the way of camaraderie. I had to provide something in the way of support for a woman desperately grateful, but desperately paranoid like Narcissa, and her equally troubled and troubling son.

I spent that year very much underground. What use did Voldemort have for a follower so vilified and able as Severus Snape? Keep him under lock and key, was his response. I was discouraged from leaving the Riddle House or any compound where he happened to make himself at home. My only use came as an informant of a latter degree, advising him on what action to take next, the flaws and weaknesses of any members of the Order.

So I had to be careful with how I visited my family (only Moralis and my great great grandfather and only at specific locations) and what I wrote to them and when I wrote to them. What's more, I was still supplying information to the Order, for the most part anonymously. It was a very dangerous time for me, understandably but also, and this should come as no surprise either considering how espionage runs in our family, a rather exciting one as well.

One thing that I knew for sure was that Voldemort was obsessed - and that in itself is a massive understatement - with the significance of Harry Potter in the Prophecy. He was not stupid: he had known, from the instant he had attempted to kill Harry as a baby that there was something he had misunderstood about the boy. Even though the final answer was simple enough (Love, it turned out), the implications were all too complicated. There was a repeated pattern in anything he had to do with the boy, the Dark Lord had realised. That repeated pattern was unequivocal failure.

However, I had also learnt as a closely affiliated member of the Order and from the other Death Eaters, that even magic was impossible between those two. The Reverse Spell Effect that had taken place after Lord Voldemort's resurrection had shaken all those who had witnessed it - well, you can imagine it: the faces of the dead, speaking and exacting their revenge as best they could. Of course it would have terrified any Death Eater, particularly one who hadn't done his homework as most of them hadn't. But no matter, neither the Dark Lord nor the Chosen One could even duel against each other effectively without wasting a good deal of time. Fortunately, I had learnt more from Dumbledore: the what had seemed to be merely absurd claims on Harry Potter as the Chosen One actually bore some weight. Not the spurious sort that I had assumed, when first the Dark Lord had heard the part that I had told him of what I'd heard of the Prophecy, but actual merit. From Dumbledore's (typical) reactions to any questioning he went under, I began to clutch wildly onto the bizarre theory that the Chosen One was actually... the Chosen One.

In the dramatic events that followed my cold blooded murder of Albus Dumbledore, I really began to believe this idea of mine. Partly because if it were true, Harry Potter was then my last and only chance at complete and final revenge, which excused my inactivity, and partly because I had nothing else going for me and was becoming concerned with my suddenly frail position as the Dark Lord's right hand man.

Suddenly, my direction became clear. I began to do my best to orchestrate the following events to my advantage. I persuaded the Dark Lord to use certain Death Eaters at certain times as guards of certain areas, I began to keep a close eye on Draco Malfoy to ensure that he, at least, would survive whatever it was that would take place. I got back into contact with my grandfather and had him shift gold about to the account of the Malfoy's as well as into the new ones I had set up for my children, so that they would have plenty to fall back on whilst I was, well, dead, as I had surmised the time. That was the only future I could really see for myself. After all, once I had completed my revenge, there was little to live for. My children were growing up and could do without me, I knew. Moralis would have the support of the family behind her. It was all very settled in my mind.

Aside from the link that was so well established in my head, I made several even more disjointed theories as to how significant Harry Potter was and how on earth I could use him to kill the Dark Lord. The fact that Harry Potter existed, began to confirm my before vague idea that the Dark Lord was indeed destructible. Looking back on it now, I can see that it was really a matter of luck that some of my ideas proved right. I say this because the grounds on which I based my assumptions were so irrational and spurious that only luck could have it that I was right in some respects.

Time went by and what measures that I had had the Dark Lord introduce were now standard and for a month or so, life was comparatively boring, because there were no other ways for me to do or influence anything apart from the small and practically insignificant steps I had taken. I had realised that all really rested on Harry Potter himself. Before I could make a definite move, I had to make sure that he was there or I would not stand a chance. But that was a hellish task; Harry Potter had left Hogwarts and there was practically no news of him. What news there was, was quite strange and at all odds with everything else I had garnered. My great great grandfather had done his best to have the boy watched, so my news was more reliable than that which the Dark Lord received, for instance, from Wormtail and company.

Every now and then, I would experience what I would have described as a sudden burst of inspiration. I was at that point half mad, I swear: elated and depressed and sullen in turns. I would find myself impatient and restless, unable to sleep, replaying delusions and fantasies over and over in my head as to how it would be, that final meeting between myself, Potter and the Dark Lord. The pressures of my life had truly gone to my head and as I barely saw daylight any more, kept man that I was, I had no real sense of how much time had passed. The various parts of my life were so far apart that I had become more than the near-schizophrenic that I had been the majority of my life. My mind, with all it's secrets and past scars and injuries and plotting, had turned in on itself. The 'how' when it came to holding myself together had a lot to do with the strange sort of madness that I was experiencing more than anything else.

A lot of it had to do with the fact that I was on such close terms with the Dark Lord and suspicious as he was of me, he kept on attempting to perform Legilimency, so I spent a great deal of mental power blocking him out effectively without seeming to do so deliberately. But also, most importantly, the man's freakish nature and obsession was rubbing off on me. I was becoming much like him in a way. Often, in trying to read my mind, he left his own dangerously open, even for a few seconds, and his thoughts and feelings would practically pour out to anyone sensitive enough. In the constant presence of this, it was no surprise that my mind had regurgitated on itself if only to protect itself.

Nonetheless, I latched onto the idea that if the Dark Lord were possible to kill, then it would only be by a fatal physical action. A knife to the chest, a slit throat. Poison? I prepared all these things to take advantage of the best opportunity when it showed itself.

I realised, following this line of thought, that something would have to be done about the remaining Death Eaters. Harry Potter was, by all appearances, a lone agent. There was no band of loyal followers with him apart from the usual second and third bananas. So no cavalry rushing to his rescue should he get trapped by vengeful Death Eaters or a gloating Dark Lord, and all would be lost. I had to prepare myself for the eventual murder of all of my colleagues which I would have to perform.

It would have been impossible.

There was no way that I could communicate this to my great great grandfather without betraying my secret. What's more, how would he have been able to dispatch the right number of Aurors or members of the WSS at the right time without destroying my - our - chances of killing the Dark Lord?

I simply had to be resourceful. Poison could easily get rid of the human Death Eaters. The werewolves... I remember when I first went through all this in my head, how I had winced at the embarrassing thought of me buying or making myself a silver sword to kill them with. It would have to be with magic then, but silver was a must, just in case.

Anyway, to physically kill the Dark Lord, the only thing that I could imagine Potter using was something like a sword. To humour myself, I tried to envision him wielding a gun of some sort, but of course I knew that that would be all too difficult not to mention ridiculous. I could hardly see Potter as being physically capable of killing him with his own hands and obviously a wand was out of the question.

It was not difficult for a particular sword to come to mind.

Once, when Dumbledore had called me to his office for a general talk - he often held such meetings with members of his staff and there were occasions in the school year when it was most strategic of him to do so - I had caught sight of a splendid looking ornament on the wall. It was a well polished sword with rubies encrusted on it's hilt and some dried blood on it's blade. Fascinated, I paid no attention whatsoever to Dumbledore and whatever he was talking about, I interrupted him abruptly by saying, "what on earth is that?"

Surprised, at the tone of my voice or the question itself, Dumbledore told me that it was a sword he had got in the school. There was always a sort of game that we played with each other: asking obvious questions or perhaps questions with double meanings and replying only to the question in it's literal sense. We annoyed each other a great deal in the process, but thoroughly enjoyed ourselves as well, I think.

"Where did you find it?"

"In the Chamber of Secrets."

I looked at him and he nodded. "Really, Severus," he said gravely. "In the Chamber itself."

Then it had clicked in my mind. "Damn," I said. "This is the thing that Potter whacked the beastie with." As I said, there were very rare moments when Dumbledore and I could get rather stupid around each other and that was one of them. Unsurprisingly, he laughed at that. "It is isn't it?"

"Yes. Gryffindor's sword, to be precise."

I had whistled at that.

So, in my rather desperate state of mind, it was actually an almost logical step to think that somehow the sword and Potter could be linked. Well, to be more precise, the sword and Potter and the ultimate destruction of the Dark Lord. It made such perfect beautiful sense in my head that I was surprised that I hadn't figured it out before.

My one goal was now to somehow retrieve that sword.

One such opportunity revealed itself when the Dark Lord had captured one of the members of the Order: Nymphadora Tonks. There was an uproar of jubilation in the Death Eaters ranks: she was considered to be a prominent member, one of the most meddlesome (according to our Ministry spies) and a blood-traitor to boot. Of course, she was tortured and kept for further questioning. I took my chance and went down to visit her on the pretext of doing just that.

"What do you know of Harry Potter?" I asked immediately upon closing the door shut behind me. She gave me a withering glance, coughed up some blood, then looked away. "Where is he? Is he safe? What has he managed to find?"

I think it was the last two questions that prompted her to speak to me. Her voice was low, lower than when I had first known her, and cracked. They had certainly done their best to break her down, and I was beginning to wonder whether they had succeeded. It didn't look as if it would take very long (she turned out to last all the way - she was a good deal stronger than she looked).

"He's safe," she said simply.

I began to sneer. "You don't know where he is!"

"Yes we do! He's safe! He's safe and that's all the information you'll ever need, scum!" She suddenly raised her voice and I was slightly taken aback. So, the Order didn't know of his whereabouts either. I had to think carefully of my next line of questioning.

"Hm," I said. "And as for the Order... what are your eventual plans...? We haven't heard much about your movements... it seems as if Lupin has given up on his fellow werewolves and is just content to observe them, for instance..."

She looked at me in shock. "You are sick," she shook her head. "I bet it's the guilt eating you up. Must feel terrible... You killed Dumbledore, like it was nothing, and look at you now! You're asking me what the Order is going to do - you expect me to actually answer you! _You are sick_. But you deserve it. You deserve to die."

"Be quiet. If you must shout, then scream: if they hear you talking to me, they will do even worse things to you..."

"I don't think that's possible."

I shrugged. "Just tell me: I need to know."

"Yeah, to tell your Dark--"

"Still getting reports from a certain Mr. Glow? Still following his advice, hm? I must say you've been remarkably successful so far, so that can only be the possible explanation... last week's brilliant win by the Order caused quite a stir among the Death Eater ranks..." I laughed humourlessly. It certainly had: Wormtail had received several hours of pain thanks to the supposedly faulty information he had supplied. How was he to know that Severus Snape had got the better of him once again. Ah, poor Wormtail: I almost feel sorry for him now.

Anyway. It was that which struck her.

"How do you know...?"

"How do you think!" I snapped.

She told me some things. I didn't expect her to tell me everything: she didn't trust me and if she had I probably wouldn't have taken her advice anyway; it would have shown she didn't even have the brains to be a good spy. What she told me was enough to keep my hopes up. Not enough for me to act upon, but enough for me to keep on getting myself ready. Finally, I asked her about Hogwarts.

"McGonagall's headmistress but I'd be careful about paying her a visit now..." Tonks had replied. "she might not like it."

I left Tonks, and made my way to my quarters to think. As far as I knew, the sword would still be in Hogwarts, and still in the Headmaster's - Headmistress' - office. I simply had to find an opportunity to leave the presence of the Dark Lord for long enough to be able to steal it.

But luck was on my side: with fewer wizarding children safe in Hogwarts, the Dark Lord was having a field day. Since Dumbledore's death, he had even managed to gather not a few to his side, those for whom Dumbledore's death had confirmed their secret, uncomplimentary opinions on the man. I was relieved to see that Theodore Nott was not one of them, (well, at least one of them had to be a success), though I knew he was still very good friends with Draco. Not only that, but due to the paranoia of their parents, a higher percentage of the young wizards not enslaved to the Dark Order, were at risk. It was not uncommon for me to find several Death Eaters walking down a corridor with a terrified child in their arms, a victim of kidnap ideal for blackmail and ransom. It was on one such evening, when the Dark Lord left some of us alone to deal with his young charges, that I made my excuses, pretended to go to my quarters and fled to Hogwarts.

I apparated at some distance from the Riddle House and then had to make my way quickly inside Hogwarts, due to the fact that one cannot apparate into the grounds of Hogwarts (which I had briefly forgotten on that night when I was trying to escape with Draco). Unlike Sirius, my Animagus form is thoroughly useless for stealth and secrecy, so I had to find different means of getting inside. Eventually, I was forced to climb for the greater part along the ramparts and buttresses, until I was able to get in through a window, strengthen the Disillusionment charm on myself and begin to attempt the theft of the sword of Gryffindor.

Of course, I succeeded: it meant a good deal more climbing and me cutting away the glass panes of the window in the Head's office to get in. When I had, I did my business quickly. The sword was still there, glinting in the semi-dark and when I drew it away, the steel sang.

It drew the attention of the slumbering former Head's, who had been feigning sleep whilst I cut away the glass, in order to give themselves a chance to see what it was. At first their eyes couldn't focus on me, but soon enough, they recognised me. We looked at each other in complete silence, they, shocked that it could be me who was standing there with the sword in my hand, and I, daring them to shout and call for help.

But no. "And what's stopping us from alerting the 'Mistress, eh young man?" Said an old witch with a monobrow.

I snorted. "The fact that this might actually work."

They all continued to stare at me intently, as if trying to shame me. "Do you think it would be best if I took the scabbard as well?" I asked.

"Why not the damn shield!" Another burst out who had been getting redder and redder with fury since seeing me and could now no longer help herself. "Why not a few of us, whilst you're at it!"

"You wouldn't be nearly so useful, I'm afraid," I answered truthfully. "This is for Mr. Potter: when it comes down to it, I think this blade will be far more effective against the Dark Lord, than smashing your portraits over him. It would probably stun him for a bit, but that would be all. Where is the scabbard?"

"_For Mr. Potter?" _One portrait, a man, repeated, whispering. In the darkness, I couldn't recognise him.

"Yes. A thrust through the heart ought to do it."

There was another silence, this one more uneasy than anything else.

"It's on that book case over there. Be careful, though."

"Of course." I put the sword into it's scabbard and with a quick spell, wrapped it in ordinary brown paper and charmed it so that it would divert the eyes of anyone who might see it. "Thank you," I said and strode to the window.

"Do you know where he is?" The voice called again. "Harry, I mean."

I looked at the portrait carefully and realised that it was Albus Dumbledore. I hadn't thought that he would be there already, but of course, much time had passed. Still, I wasn't surprised. I regarded the portrait carefully. It looked very much like him, but there was nothing particularly striking anymore. He was just animated portrait. There was his essence, oh yes, but none of the physicality and the sense of energy as before. But what was I expecting?

"No, I don't I'm afraid," I raised the packaged sword slightly. "But I'm preparing for him."

I quickly returned. The Dark Lord, fortunately, had not, and I was able to safely hide the sword in my room.

Life continued as usual. For another two and a half months, I heard no news whatsoever of Harry Potter. I wondered if he had been killed or simply got lost. I wondered so many things at that point. My hold on the Dark Lord, although strengthening to a certain degree, was not of the most desirable calibre. He listened to my advice obsessively, asked for my opinions more voraciously and intruded upon my mind less and less frequently. I began to worry in case this blatant favouritism should incur the wrath of my fellow Death Eaters, asses that they were. But no, I was quite within their limits - I became known for doing each of them one or two favours when the right moment came.

But then it happened. I no longer needed my great great grandfather's spies, because news had come that Harry Potter, the Chosen One was on his way. Each day, we got more and more news: of the people he had disposed of (to this day I somehow doubt that he actually killed anyone, but such were the rumours at the time), his bizarre route (meandering through local countryside and forest, rather than taking a direct route to the Riddle House), but most of all, the speed with which he was journeying. Within a matter of days, we all knew that he was somewhere within the village community, just outside the Riddle property. But where was he? What was he doing?

I began to take to dressing up in a long cloak with a deep hood and wandering through the countryside and woodland in an attempt to see him and tell him what next to do. Otherwise, he would have been a very dead Chosen One within a matter of half an hour or so.

It was not I who succeeded in doing this, but my grandfather who one day, mysteriously sent me a message to meet him at a certain spot just outside the village. Donning my cloak, I obeyed his summons and was most surprised to see Harry Potter sitting there in the clearing with my grandfather at a large fire. I kept to the shadows, and kept my hood up.

"Ah, hello Mr. Glow," my grandfather stood up politely when he saw me. "Mr. Potter, our informant, Mr. Glow."

I bowed slightly. "Good evening," I said, deepening my voice. Potter regarded me with a strikingly hostile and adult look in his eye. It told me that he had no intention of hurting me yet, and that I ought to get on with it. How appropriate, I thought, that this is the boy who will ultimately kill my adversary. "I have advice for you as to how to get into the Riddle House and kill the Dark Lord," he was about to say something, but I went on quickly, "no, please, listen: You must wait for a suitable signal. There are more than twenty Death Eaters in that House and they must be killed first: I and a few others will take care of that. Even if we don't succeed, the majority of them will be dead by the time you arrive. Mr. Prince here will then call for Aurors and the Order to get here to back you up. Do your best to remain hidden when you are in the House. I will lure the Dark Lord to you..."

"Really? How will you manage that then?" Harry's brow had furrowed and a strange sort of anger had set upon his face. He was tired and had seen too much, I could tell. It was all in his eyes. I nearly felt sorry for him.

I laughed, though. "If I don't, you just have to look out for his snake and she'll practically lead you to him. Or vice versa."

"Speaking of which," my grandfather chimed in, "Mr. Potter has something to tell you about that snake." I looked at him as best I could: there was something very authoritative in his stance. Since when had my shy grandfather been so upright and commanding? I rather liked the change, even if it did surprise me a little bit. Looking back on it now, though, I can see it was his way of controlling his emotions in front of me and Mr. Potter.

"Yeah," Potter began, almost casually. "It's a Horcrux... _she _is, rather. When you're done with the Death Eaters, see if you can kill her for me: she has to die before him, though, or I won't be able to kill him."

I was stunned for a moment, but then recovered. Damn, I thought: I realised that I would never have been able to kill the Dark Lord for the past seventeen years, if not longer. The mere thought rocked within me. I had been so close to failing, and had not even realised it. I swore over and over to myself in my head. Dumbledore had known... this boy had known... I was a fool... why hadn't I seen?... A Horcrux...

"Alright?" He asked, rather aggressively. I nodded mutely, stiffly.

"Well that's sorted," my grandfather said, clapping his hands together. "We'll be seeing you tomorrow, Mr. Glow."

Tomorrow?

"Already?" I asked, breathless.

"Oh yes," said my grandfather, suddenly grim. "Tomorrow. In the evening, mind you. Less visibility."

With that, I was dismissed.

Ah, but how glorious were those following hours, I can recall. There was no better time for me: I felt alive with purpose, and the excitement flooded through my veins and arteries like my life-blood. The Dark Lord was to be killed!

I got out my old stock of poisons and began measuring them out. He had said in the evening, so I prepared to add them to the food that the house elves would cook for supper. It was not uncommon for me to go to the kitchens from time to time: the house elves and the Dark Lord were used to it, so there would be nothing unremarkable about it. I had also prepared a silver solution that would prove fatal to the werewolves with the quantities that I knew they would ingest with their food (it was simply a matter of how quickly it would be absorbed into their bloodstream. How fortunate I was, that the average werewolve's metabolism is twice as fast as a human's. I was to learn that fact later from Mr. Khan).

As for Nagini... she was known to hunt alone. She would travel widely around the House and it's grounds: How was I to find her, yet alone kill her without arousing suspicion? The only way, I surmised, was to signal to Potter to get in and lead the Dark Lord to him, and to kill her once he was busy exchanging insults with the Chosen One.

Snakes however, I immediately realised, were not known for their ease of dying at a human's hands. Once again, magic was the best option: I would blind her first and then slice her throat. I didn't want to commit Avada Kedavra because I knew that if we were in the vicinity of the Dark Lord, the green light would be distracting and immediately summon the Dark Lord's attention.

Between preparing the poisons and the silver solutions, I was busy thinking of a way to lead the Dark Lord to Potter and a way to keep him alive until I could give the boy the sword. I was at my best, weighing up the chances, the possibility of failure, the possibility of success... my brain was abuzz, and for the first time in nearly a year, I was thinking clearly and logically: just as I liked it.

The hours passed. I slipped to the kitchens and added the poisons and silver solutions to the finished food, just before the house elves would serve it out: I didn't want their blood on my hands as well. They would prepare their own food later (a rule of the House), if there would be a later for them. I dished out Draco's serving of food myself, uncontaminated except with a powerful sleeping draught: I certainly didn't want him getting in the way. I gave it to him directly and watched him eat it (he didn't notice as I had left the room) and then fall sound asleep within a few minutes.

On returning to the kitchens, I saw some of the younger Death Eaters already queuing up to abuse the house elves and demand their supper, and felt a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that they were going to die within a matter of hours.

I left the kitchens and wandered around the House in an attempt to track down Nagini. I was unlucky this time. I had to make do with my recaptured knowledge of the corridor's of the House and then I went into the garden to kill the guards.

There were five of them, burly young men, built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle who, in fact, were amongst their number. I easily dispatched of them, then I transfigured and buried their bodies. Looking at my sky, and then my watch, I realised that now was the best time to signal to Potter and my grandfather. Little did I know, though, that they were waiting in the gardens and had seen me getting rid of the bodies. For when I had finished my task, I saw Potter's face, full of rage and hatred, staring out at me from the midst of the rosebush. He remained where he was though but I could feel his hateful gaze lingering on my back as I went inside.

By now, the younger Death Eaters were in their quarters, dead, presumably. It was the older ones - Dolohov, Nott and such - who went for their supper now. We exchanged brief greetings, and I mentioned my worries for the guards: "They've become unusually quiet. I haven't seen one of them patrolling the grounds this evening."

"Well," Bellatrix had replied nastily. "The majority of them were your students, so why should you be surprised?"

I dipped my head in response, and made my way to the Dark Lord himself, to stay with him awhile until the news that most of his Death Eaters were dead would eventually arrive.

We chatted about inconsequential things, the sort of talk that always disturbed me far more than his rants and rages. We spoke of supplies, how tired we felt and for no apparent reason; how ineffective the Ministry were: how strange that the Order had become so comparatively quiet. We gently mocked the other Death Eaters and he me, and I... well, not so much him, but others a bit more.

It was half past seven when the news reached us: to my surprise, it was Greyback. He burst in through the door, looking haggard and grey, as if his skin were about to fall off his frame. His eyes were bloodshot and he was wheezing and clutching his chest. "Someone's... poisoned u-u-usss, master! Ev-everyone's..." then he fell to the floor, dead. I was very impressed with my efforts and congratulated myself mentally: it was all so dark and dramatic, stirring up just the sort of panic I had wanted. It would be in this panic that the Dark Lord's actions and response would be easy to shape to my will.

"What the--" I muttered. "Stay here, my Lord. I want to see what this is about." I put a look of grim determination on my face and for the first time in a long, long while, I let my mental guard down, letting what he presumed to be mild panic and wonderment stream from my mind. He was convinced by it and let me go, following me to the corridor. I went to the kitchens whilst he called for Nagini. Perfect, I thought.

In the kitchens, there were one or two of them who lay dying on the floor, and I put them out of their misery with little hesitation. As I made my way back upstairs around the House, to ensure that the rest were truly dead, I had to do the same repeatedly to those who had simply collapsed onto the floor instead of dying immediately: a silver blade to the throat for the werewolves and a swift turn of the head for the others. So far, so good, I thought to myself, as I checked into the rooms of the older Death Eaters. As far as I could make out, everyone was dead.

My next move was to track down Nagini. I had no idea how to go about this: at first I made my way back up to the room where the Dark Lord and I had previously sat and chatted. He was not there. Taking the initiative, I sped up to my own room and got the sword and it's scabbard out from the place where I had hidden them. I returned to the corridor just outside that room where the fire was still glowing, and then followed what I assumed had been his route when he had gone the opposite way to me.

After ten minutes of this, I could safely presume that he was somewhere downstairs. As I made my way quickly down the stairs, I heard someone following close behind me. I turned and looked up and there stood Bellatrix with a terrible look on her face. She had a curved knife and a wand in each hand, and an animal expression of complete fury as she regarded me. In the short time between us standing her and her literally flying down the stairs with a desperate roar of rage, knife and wand flailing, I could see that she had ingested some of the poison, though perhaps not enough: her eyes were bloodshot and her skin the same dead grey that Fenrir's had been. I let her come at me, moving aside only slightly so that she fell through her own momentum. She lay at the bottom, stunned before staggering to her feet and trying to attack me again. I could see now that if she kept it up, the poison would come to it's full effect and kill her for me.

But no such luck: she was still fast with her blade, though her lunges were a little off-balance and her footing precarious. I whipped out my wand and prepared to duel with her, but in her fury and haste to kill me, she would have none of that. I kicked her square in the chest and she fell back again. This time, it took her far longer to get up again and when she did, I saw the skin of her face sagging, ready to fall away.

"You!" Was all she could say. The word was slow and loud and long. "You... Traitor!"

Before she could attack me again, I grabbed her own knife and swiftly ran her through with it. I twisted brutally and let her fall back, coughing up blood.

Dropping the knife, I sped down the stairs to find that wretched Nagini. I could tell that a lot of time had been wasted and I knew that Potter was already inside. I was terrified that the plan, my careful, painstakingly rendered plan, would go amiss.

But no. From the large dining hall on the first floor, I could hear voices. I recognised them immediately: the Dark Lord had finally caught up with the Chosen One and I was too late - I had failed.

Carefully, I tried to open the door wide enough so that I could see them in the darkness. Potter was bleeding from the head and I could tell from long experience that the Dark Lord was exhausted. Could it be? I foolishly thought for a moment - could it be that they actually could do magic against one another? Waking myself up, however, I realised that nonetheless, Nagini would have to die first.

How fortunate I was that the little pet always stayed nearby to her master.

She slithered out from nowhere and entwined herself between my ankles, hissing and flicking her tongue. I knew she could smell the blood on me. I knew she could tell whose blood it was. I wondered what on earth she could be saying to her master. So, I backed away slowly, as if I were just going for a walk in the opposite direction and she followed me, her coils meandering, her eyes malevolent as her tongue kept on probing the air... flicking...

With a quick motion, I threw the knife at her, neatly slicing her head in half lengthways. I killed her with my wand for good measure, too far away for the Dark Lord to have picked it up. It was too quick for her to have uttered a warning to her master: she had eaten only recently and the meal still being digested in her belly had hampered her mental and physical prowess. Flushed with success, I froze when I heard the Dark Lord call for me: "Severus? Severus!"

I obeyed and took a long walk down the hallway, over Nagini's body, my steps echoing in the darkness. "Lumos," I whispered.

I got to the door and stepped across the threshold. I walked slowly, calmly towards the Dark Lord. "Yes, master?" I asked, calmly. He didn't have to tell me anything though, I could see in his eyes that he wanted me to give Potter a taste of my skills in the Dark Arts.

There was the briefest of pauses, the sort in which time stops and you can feel every hair on your body making it's slow growth upwards and every minute things sticks in your mind, until I threw the sword at Potter and shouted "Now, boy!"

The Dark Lord was distracted: the suspicious silence of his Death Eaters had been one thing, but the abrupt departure of Nagini from his mind was another and he was unprepared for what was about to happen. Granted, he was fast with his spellwork, but there was only one of him and two of us, and he couldn't even do magic against the one, either.

"Petrificus Totalus!" I shouted, binding the Dark Lord's body. Potter swiftly drew out the sword after the brief moment of his own amazement and swung wildly: the steel bit deep within the Dark Lord's neck, but only so. They both screamed, Potter in frustration and the Dark Lord in pain and anguish, pain which he had inflicted upon others for so long, but pain that he himself had never experienced in a very long time and anguish for the dawning of understanding that now was his time... his last Horcrux was destroyed. Potter wrenched the blade way, and I held the twisting, but rigid torso of the Dark Lord. His red eyes, inhuman and bright as blood looked at me in outrage but then... as with Old Nott... realisation. The stark change of expression both pleased and frightened me as the same time. I looked back into his eyes...

And I saw something new too: I saw my mother watching her husband die and her only child being tortured: I saw myself lying on that kitchen floor, dying. I saw so many things, memories that had been stolen from me. All this, in the sharing of his death. Ah, how I longed to die in that moment too, if only to get a deeper taste of what it was that I was glimpsing.

It was so, so quick, I almost wanted to stop Potter from delivering that final swing, from preventing me from seeing more of those beautiful memories... memories and the ability to retain them, that I had lost.

But I didn't. I let go of the Dark Lord's head and watched his face, the look of wonder mingled with fear and pain, as Potter hacked at the half-parted neck. His eyes never left mine.

Shortly, the head was severed, and soon, the Dark Lord was dead.

His eyes never left mine.

Potter died with the Dark Lord eventually: he had fulfilled his part. The Prophecy needed him no more.

The Order of the Phoenix had been summoned in time by my grandfather to sweep through the area. Potter had been almost gracious at their arrival, before collapsing, his body contorting and writhing as his spirit fled him. They had flocked to him, worried and terrified for the boy they loved. As he lay dying, looking at me with a carefully empty look, they too began to understand what had happened and why we were both covered in so much blood, none of it being our own. They were certainly very afraid.

I was arrested immediately, by an Auror I did not know. None of the Order could even look at me, even when I told them where Tonks was hidden.

Interviews of varying degrees of hostility followed. The tears of my wife and children followed. Letters of hatred and disappointment. Of admiration and wonder. All these things followed. Then Azkaban.

As it has been for the past three years.

_Another of my memories came to me last night. But this was different, because I was actually standing there, watching everything happen. There was me, not so very young but still very small, sitting at the kitchen table, dwarfed by it, I looked so comical, eating my supper alone with a fork that was too big for my hand. I had never seen a memory like this, and I kept my eyes on my younger self. Then I heard muffled voices coming from another room some way down the corridor. The younger me barely reacts to this, just swings his legs back and forth under the table, but he stops putting food on the fork for a while and seems to be listening._

_Suddenly my mother appears and runs down the corridor into the kitchen. There are tears streaming down her face. The younger me looks up, startled, and she wipes he face hurriedly. "My darling, I didn't know you were still here... I was just admitting defeat... I lost the screaming match." Her voice was so bitter, but she smiled too brightly, wiped her face with the sleeve of her cardigan again and shrugged her shoulders, preparing to do the washing up._

_"Mama--" the younger me began. I had never heard myself talk, before. I had a small, husky voice with a strange lilt._

_"No, no... don't you worry... we'll have a rematch next week probably..." then she started laughing. Or crying again. I couldn't tell which._

END.

(AN: I am hoping that this will encourage you to review. Criticism most welcome and indeed, wanted. Thanks to excessivelyperky and duj, for persistently reviewing this (!) and to disposabletengirl and Emerald Dragoness : I am glad that you found it that interesting, and I hope to find it on your favourites page!)


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